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Our Little Boer Cousin 


THE 

Little Cousin Series 

(TRADE MARE) 


Each volume illustrated^ with six or more full page plates in 
tint. Cloth, i2mo, with decorative cover 
per volume, 60 cents 

LIST OF TITLES 

By Mary Hazelton Wade, Mary F. 
Nixon-Roulet, Blanche McManus, 
Clara V. Winlow, Florence E. 
Mendel and Others 


Our Little African Cousin 
Our Little Alaskan Cousin 
Our Little Arabian Cousin 
Our Little Argentine Cousin 
Our Little Armenian Cousin 
Our Little Australian Cousin 
Our Little Austrian Cousin 
Our Little Belgian Cousin 
Our Little Bohemian Cousin 
Our Little Boer Cousin 
Our Little Brazilian Cousin 
Our Little Bulgarian Cousin 
Our Little Canadian Cousin 
Our Little Chinese Cousin 
Our Little Cuban Cousin 
Our Little Danish Cousin 
Our Little Dutch Cousin 
Our Little Egyptian Cousin 
Our Little English Cousin 
Our Little Eskimo Cousin 
Our Little French Cousin 
Our Little German Cousin 
Our Little Grecian Cousin 
Our Little Hawaiian Cousin 
Our Little Hindu Cousin 

THE PAGE 

S3 Beacon Street, 


Our Little Hungarian Cousin 
Our Little Indian Cousin 
Our Little Irish Cousin 
Our Little Italian Cousin 
Our Little Japanese Cousin 
Our Little Jewish Cousin 
Our Little Korean Cousin 
Our Little Malayan (Brown) 
Cousin 

Our Little Mexican Cousin 
Our Little Norwegian Cousin 
Our Little Panama Cousin 
Our Little Persian Cousin 
Our Little Philippine Cousin 
Our Little Polish Cousin 
Our Little Porto Rican Cousin 
Our Little Portuguese Cousin 
Our Little Russian Cousin 
Our Little Scotch Cousin 
Our Little Servian Cousin 
Our Little Siamese Cousin 
Our Little Spanish Cousin 
Our Little Swedish Cousin 
Our Little Swiss Cousin 
Our Little Turkish Cousin 

COMPANY 

Boston, Mass. 















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“PETRUS BUSIED HIMSELF STEEPING BULLOCK’S HIDE IN 

water.” ( See page ig ) 


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Our Little 
Boer Cousin 


By 

Luna May Innes 

M 

Author of “Our Little Danish Cousin,” etc. 


Illustrated by 

John Goss 



Boston 

The Page Company 


MDCCCCXV 




4$t «$t 4$t 4$t * j'* * j* jf* ^ * j* 4$t ^ 



0 


Copyright, 1915, by 
The Page Company 

All rights reserved 


First Impression, September, 1915 


SEP 22 1915 

©CI.A410608 


& -45 


TO 

Milam malar* pjrlpa, 3r., 

MY BOOK-LOVING YOUNG FRIEND, 
THIS LITTLE STORY OF THE BOERS IS 
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



PREFACE 


Far away in the African antipodes — at the 
extreme opposite side of the world from us — 
lies South Africa. Vast as is this British pos- 
session, it forms but the southernmost point or 
tip of the great dark continent. In its very 
heart lies the Transvaal — the home of our lit- 
tle Boer cousins. 

The great “ thirst-veldt ” of the Kalahari 
Desert lies to the north-west of their land, which 
is about the size of England, and with a very 
similar climate, and to the south, beyond the 
Drakensberg Mountains, lies Natal, Kaffraria 
and Zululand. 

The story of the Transvaal is the story of 
the Boers — a stalwart, patriotic and deeply 
religious race, whose history began one April 
day in 1652, about the time when Cromwell was 


viii Preface 

at the height of his power, when four Dutch 
ships, under the daring Jan Van Riebek, entered 
the bay of Table Mountain and made their first 
landing at the Cape of Good Hope. 

We have all read of the splendid valor of the 
Boers. Their history is as full of romance as it 
is of pathos and struggle. Such names as “ Oom 
Paul ” Kruger — four times president — Gen- 
eral Botha, and General Joubert, come to us at 
once when we think of the Transvaal. 

But there are other great names associated 
with this land; such remarkable ones as those 
of Livingstone the “ Pathfinder,” and “ Mes- 
senger of God,” as he was called; and of Cecil 
Rhodes, the “ Empire Builder,” whose dream 
it was to build the great north road — 
now nearing completion — which will stretch 
like a ribbon across the whole African conti- 
nent from the Cape to the Mediterranean. 

Perhaps, in this little story, you may gain a 
glimpse of the surroundings, the wholesome out- 


Preface ix 

of-door farm-life, work and play of our little 
Boer cousins — boys and girls of the antipodes, 
and of the bright future which awaits the Trans- 
vaal. 

The Author. 

Chicago, June, 1915. 



Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Preface vii 

I. Petrus Joubert i 

II. At “ Weltefreden ” 17 

III. A Transvaal “ Model Farm ” . . 34 

IV. The Great “Trek” 51 

V. A Boer “ Nachtmaal ” 71 

VI. Over the “ Great Karroo ” to Cape 

Town 81 

VII. A Kafir Party at the Chief’s Kraal 94 

VIII. A Storm on the Drakensberg . .107 

IX. A Zulu War-Dance 120 

X. Petrus the Hero 135 












List of Illustrations 


PAGE 

“Petrus busied himself steeping bullock’s hide 

IN water.” ( See page ig) . . . Frontispiece 

“The lieutenant again took careful aim and 

fired” 13 

“It was a long, low, one-story cottage, half- 

hidden BY THE ROADSIDE TREES” ... 79 

“ The searching party . . . carried great torches ” 109 

“ Piling great beams of wood in orderly rows on 

THE WHARF” 122 

“ The whole yelling mass made another wild 

charge” 13 1 



Our Little Boer Cousin 


CHAPTER I 

PETRUS JOUBERT 

It was spring in the Transvaal. Already the 
wattle-trees beside the farm-schoolhouse door 
were thickly covered with a mass of golden 
bloom, and the little blue pan — or lake — 
down among the willows, again reflected the sky 
and clouds as the Boer children trooped past it. 

Many a chilly morning had they trudged on 
their way to that same little room of corru- 
gated iron and wood, just beyond the farthest 
kopje 1 — often so early that the grass was still 
sparkling with the sunlit hoar-frost. 

The sun shone warm now, and groups of 
laughing little Boer girls, in large pinafores 


1 A flat-topped little hill. 


2 Our Little Boer Cousin 
and kappies, hurried across the trackless grassy 
veldt 1 from every direction. Some of them, 
like Christina Allida, Adriana, Franzina, and 
black-eyed, laughing little Yettie, whose farms 
were a long way off, drove over in their 
crowded Cape cart spiders and ramshackle con- 
veyances of every description. 

Soon Franzina’s cart, with Yettie, came 
rumbling up to the door, where all the older 
boys — like their big cousin, Petrus Joubert — 
who had galloped over on their shaggy little 
Cape ponies, were off-saddling and knee-halter- 
ing them under the wattle-trees. To remove 
the saddle, and then, with the head-stall, to 
fasten the pony’s head to his leg just above his 
knee, so that he might graze freely about, yet 
be caught again when wanted after school was 
out, took but a moment. Then the saddles 
were hung on the schoolhouse wall in a length- 
ening row, and lessons begun. 


1 The open grassy plains. 


Petrus Joubert 3 

All Boer boys are trained to ride from the 
time they can walk. Petrus could even “ out- 
spann ” 1 a team of his uncle’s oxen. He was 
fond of all animals — especially of his sturdy 
little Basuto pony, which he had christened 
“ Ferus.” Ferus meant “ fearless.” He 
prized him above everything he possessed. He 
was trained to obey the slightest turn of the 
reins, or to come to a full stop at the sound of 
one low whistle from his master. Through 
storm or sunshine he carried his young rider 
swiftly to school and home again — always 
with little live-year-old brother Theunis holding 
tightly on behind. 

“Jump, Theunis!” affectionately called 
Petrus to the child. Theunis, his only brother, 
was very dear to him. 

Still clutching a dog-eared copy of “ Steb-by- 
Steb ” 2 in one small hand, Theunis slid off and 

1 Unhitch. 

2 “ Step-by-Step.” 


4 Our Little Boer Cousin 
hurried after his big brother into the little 
room. 

Soon it was crowded with noisy children, 
all busily buzzing over their English les- 
sons, and answering “ Ek-weit-nie ” 1 to the 
teacher’s questions. It was a government 
farm-school. Only one hour a day was allowed 
for Dutch. 

Petrus would be ready for the High School 
at Johannesburg in the fall. He was one of 
the brightest boys in the school. Not only did 
he head his classes, but he had read the Bible 
and “ Steps of Youth ” — two books all Boer 
boys study — well — twice through. Also, he 
was perfectly familiar with the “ Stories from 
Homer ” and the “ History of the United 
States of America.” This last book, like his 
Bible, he never could read enough. Its story 
of the struggle for liberty, by a brave people like 
his own, against the same hostile power his an- 


1 “ I don’t know.’ 


Petrus Joubert 


5 

cestors for generations had had to combat, fas- 
cinated him. 

In the Transvaal’s mild, sub-tropical climate, 
with its wonderful health-giving air, the Boer 
youth develops early into self-reliant manhood. 
At thirteen Petrus was nearly as tall as his 
Uncle Abraham, and was more than the phys- 
ical equal of his English or American cousins of 
sixteen or seventeen. Living a healthy out- 
door farm-life, he had become a great broad- 
shouldered lad of strong stalwart build, with 
the resolute forward tread of his “ voor-trek- 
king ” ancestors. 

One could see that Petrus was a true “ Hol- 
lander-Bper ” — from his corduroy trousers and 
the large home-made “ veldt-schoens ” on his 
feet, to the broad-brimmed hat that shaded his 
fair hair and blue eyes from the African sun. 
Yet there was a certain French-Huguenot cast 
to his features. It came from the Jouberts on 
his father’s side of the family. Some of the 


6 Our Little Boer Cousin 

brightest pages of the Transvaal’s history had 
been written by a brave soldier uncle of his — 
Petrus Joubert 1 — whose great-great-grand- 
father had fled from France to South Africa 
with hundreds of his persecuted countrymen for 
freedom to read his Bible and to worship among 
the Dutch Boers of the Transvaal. He be- 
came one of them, fought in their wars, was 
made their president, and later they appointed 
him commandant-general of all the Boer forces 
when hostilities began against England. Petrus 
was his namesake. Of this he was very proud. 
His family called him “ Koos ” for short. 

From his school desk near the window, Petrus 

1 General Petrus Joubert went with Paul Kruger to Eng- 
land in 1878 to protest against the annexation of the Trans- 
vaal, and in 1880 joined with Kruger and Pretorius in pro- 
claiming its independence. In the war that followed he 
commanded the army and won the famous victories of Laing’s 
Neck and Majuba Hill. He was elected Vice-President in 
1883, contested the presidency in 1888 and in 1899 took 
command of the army in Natal, defeating the British in 
several engagements and holding General White besieged 
for months at Ladysmith, despite General Buller’s efforts 
at relief. He died at Pretoria, March, 1900. 


Petrus Joubert 


7 

kept a wolf-like eye on his pony as he grazed 
about. Sometimes Ferus wandered entirely 
out of sight. This always distressed Petrus 
greatly. 

As he gazed across the high veldt for miles 
about, Petrus could almost see the outskirts of 
his uncle’s vast farm of six thousand acres. 
First, beyond a few scattered red-brown kopjes, 
there was the blue pan — then, just beyond — 
through a small plantation of Scotch firs and 
poplars — he could see the plain little Dutch 
Reformed Church, which his uncles had re- 
roofed after the war. Still farther beyond 
was Johannesburg, the “ Golden City,” where 
he had been promised he might attend High 
School next winter. The thought thrilled him. 
How good his uncle had always been to him, 
he thought. There on the farm, with his un- 
cle and Aunt Johanna, his grandfather and 
great-grandfather, he had lived ever since he 
could remember. His own dear father had 


8 Our Little Boer Cousin 

been killed in the war. His mother had 
scarcely survived the hardships of the terrible 
time when their house and everything they 
owned had been burned to the ground by Brit- 
ish soldiers. Then his kind Uncle Abraham 
— his mother’s brother, who was an Elder in 
the Church — had welcomed them to his great 
place, “ Weltefreden,” the only home Petrus 
had ever known. 

There was a loud ringing of the school bell. 
It was the noon hour. Out the children rushed 
helter-skelter — the girls to their games of 
“ Frott ” or “ touch-wood,” Petrus and the boys 
to their cricket and Rugby football. 

“ Oh, there’s Uncle Abraham coming now! ” 
exclaimed Petrus, with a start, as he saw a fa- 
miliar pair of shaggy brown horses and a green 
cart rattling up to the schoolhouse door. Petrus 
ran to meet him. 

“ I come to say I must take Petrus to the 
farm to-day. The locusts are on my corn-fields, 


Petrus Joubert 


9 

and my head Kafir is gone,” explained Mr. Jou- 
bert to the teacher. 

“ But, Mr. Joubert, his inspection is coming 
off so soon,” protested the teacher. 

“ I think one day will make no difference,” 
persisted the uncle. “ Petrus must come.” 

Further protest was useless. Petrus was al- 
lowed to climb quickly into his uncle’s cart. 
Theunis would ride Ferus home. 

The horses dashed through the deep grass of 
the high veldt, taking the shortest route home. 
Petrus could already see a blackening cloud in 
the distance overcasting the sky. 

“ Nothing will be left of my crops! — noth- 
ing! ” excitedly exclaimed his uncle. “There 
is no time to be lost! Terrible swarms cover 
everything! My Kafirs are doing what they 
can, and your Aunt Johanna and some of the 
neighbors are holding a prayer-service for re- 
lief from the pests. We must be quick and -add 
our prayers to theirs, else all will be lost! ” 


10 Our Little Boer Cousin 

“ Yes, yes, Uncle ! ” agreed Petrus quickly, 
thinking of his well-worn Testament. “ It is 
terrible! But God will surely send us relief 
from this pestilence.” 

There was a muddy drift to be crossed. The 
wheels sank deep. Emerging safely on the op- 
posite side, the team plunged directly ahead. 
Suddenly their way was obscured before them. 
The enormous flight had completely darkened 
the mid-day sun. Above their heads floated 
myriads of the insects in a great blackening 
mass. As Uncle Abraham tried to force the 
team through it, they filled the cart, beating 
against its sides and against their faces with a 
loud humming sound. Locusts are the great 
scourge of South Africa. 

In the sudden gloom a herd of Lieutenant 
Wortley’s fine cattle, crossing their path, was 
scarcely visible. Nor did they hear the lieuten- 
ant himself, and his little son George, calling to 
them. 


Petrus Joubert 1 1 

“ Oh, Uncle Abraham, here comes Lieu- 
tenant Wortley and George. They are 
waving to us to stop for them. Can’t we, 
Uncle?” 

Uncle Abraham hastily stopped the cart and 
welcomed his English friends. They were his 
nearest neighbors. Whatever hostile feelings 
he might once have had towards the British had 
long been forgotten. Thirteen years had 
passed since the war. 

“ Good day, Lieutenant Wortley. Here is 
plenty of room in the cart. Petrus, make room 
for George there with you. We are making 
all speed, Lieutenant, to save my crops from 
the locusts. We are going to have a big 
4 grass-burning ’ to-night, and smoke out what- 
ever remain of the pests.” 

“ Oh, Lieutenant Wortley, please let George 
stay with us for the burning! We always have 
such fine good times at a big grass-burning! ” 
vehemently pleaded Petrus. “ And I’ll prom- 


12 Our Little Boer Cousin 

ise to ride home with him on Ferus, afterwards, 
and we’ll — oh, what is that? ” 

Z-z-zip! Wh-i-zz! A great shower of 
gleaming Zulu assegais flew through the air over 
the cart. 

Z-z-zip! came another past George’s head. 
They hit the car with a metallic sound, glanced 
off and fell to earth. 

“ The Zulus! the Zulus!” cried the English- 
man, seizing George close in his arms. “ They 
have threatened our lives ! The cowards ! 
They are taking advantage of the dark. Quick, 
George, get down out of sight in the bottom of 
the cart ! I’ll fire at the villains ! ” 

Bang ! Boom ! Bang ! sounded the lieuten- 
ant’s rifle. 

The Zulus yelled, and quickly sent another 
shower of assegais. Petrus lowered his head. 
One landed heavily in the flying cart close to 
his feet. It was six feet long — its sharp iron 
head or blade being over a foot long in itself. 



“THE LIEUTENANT AGAIN TOOK CAREFUL AIM AND FIRED” 





Petrus Joubert 13 

An ox-tail ornamented the opposite end of the 
great spear. Already the darkening flight of 
locusts had passed on, leaving the sky bright 
and clear. Petrus gave one quick backward 
glance. One Zulu had fallen. The others 
were in hot pursuit. 

Uncle Abraham lashed the horses into a wild 
gallop. The lieutenant again took careful aim 
and fired. The Zulus went tumbling back into 
the tall grass. 

“ They’re afraid of our fire-arms ! Hur- 
rah ! ” cried Petrus in joy. “ Hurrah ! George, 
you’re safe! They are gone ! ” 

“ Yes, thank heavens! We’ve escaped their 
poisoned assegais so far — the savages! I 
know that giant Zulu who was in the lead. I 
know him well. He is Dirk,” continued the 
lieutenant. “ He looked me straight in the eye, 
as he passed close and drew his assegai. No, 
Petrus, I’ll take George home to-night. He’s 
safer there. George thanks you just the same, 


14 Our Little Boer Cousin 

but he has had a terrible fright. I don’t mean 
to let my boy out of my sight.” 

The lieutenant lifted George — white and 
trembling — into his arms. 

“ Why, Lieutenant Wortley, should the Zu- 
lus threaten your lives?” demanded Mr. Jou- 
bert, as mystified as was Petrus. 

“Yes, tell us,” added Petrus — in suspense 
to hear. 

“ As you may know,” began the Englishman, 
glad to make explanations, “ my appointment 
as collector of His Majesty’s ‘ Hunt-tax ’ fol- 
lowed the peace negotiations upon the close of 
the war. My first commission was to the Kala- 
hari Desert — that great ‘ Thirst-land ’ — as it 
is called, covering thousands of miles of the 
most desolate, sandy, waterless, tract of land 
under the heavens. There — in that fearful 
spot — men, horses, and oxen are constantly 
dying of thirst — their skeletons by thousands 
strew the great hot sand stretches. George’s 


Petrus Joubert 15 

mother had returned with him to our old home 
in England. After her death there, George’s 
Aunt Edith brought the boy as far as Cape 
Town to me. I protested, but George — hun- 
gering for adventure — begged to be taken 
along with me. Finally, I consented. 

u It was my official duty to collect the 4 Hunt- 
tax.’ I found that many of the savages of this 
God-forsaken region had never before paid a 
4 tax ’ of any kind. They rebelled. Among 
such was this giant Zulu — Dirk. He promptly 
refused to pay, although his horses were over- 
loaded with the finest skins, ivory, and the long- 
est koodoo horns I have ever seen. 

“ It was the climax of impudence when he 
disputed my authority and tried to argue with 
me. I had him promptly disarmed and jailed 
by two of my native police, afterwards ordering 
him put at convict work. He was set at well- 
digging, under guard, in the desert. It was a 
rough job, but my police accomplished it. Then 


16 Our Little Boer Cousin 

it was that Dirk flung out that threat against 
our lives. There was something in his look and 
voice that made my blood run cold. To this 
day the mere sight of him makes me apprehen- 
sive. The threat was aimed at George as much 
as at me. George is always begging me to take 
him home to England. I may decide to do it.” 

“ Oh, George dear! Don’t you leave us! 
Never shall that Zulu harm you ! I am a good 
marksman. I would shoot him before he 
should harm you! Never fear, George, I will 
be your protector always,” vehemently cried the 
Boer boy. 

Uncle Abraham shook his head gravely. 
They had reached the great farm. Bidding 
their friends adieu, Uncle Abraham and Petrus 
turned their attention to the locusts. They had 
settled themselves over the whole two miles of 
Uncle Abraham’s tender, young mealie-fields in 
layers ten to twelve inches deep, and were bus- 
ily mowing down the juicy stalks acre by acre. 


CHAPTER II 


AT “ WELTEFREDEN ” 

Spring had passed. It was sweltering hot by 
noonday in the Transvaal, for the midsummer 
days of December had come. Christmas, with 
its tennis, golf, and gay “ cross-country ” riding 
parties, was but a few short weeks off. Petrus 
had missed George’s visits to u Weltefreden ” 1 
greatly. It was a long time since he had been 
there. 

At first the terrible scare from the Zulus had 
thrown him into a violent fever, from which he 
had not recovered for weeks. After that the 
lieutenant had kept him closely at home. Of 
course Petrus had visited him there. He had 
also often sent him over good things from the 
farm, by Mutla, his favorite Kafir. Now that 

1 “Well content.” (Great Boer farms are given names.) 

1 7 


18 Our Little Boer Cousin 

George was better Petrus half hoped each day 
to see him at the farm. 

The Joubert household arose early mornings. 
Aunt Johanna always had breakfast by six. 
Then there was an hour’s rest in the hottest part 
of the day, right after dinner. Petrus was the 
first one to be up and out enjoying the balmy 
morning air — watching the Kafir herders feed- 
ing the flocks, milking the cows, yoking the 
oxen, and driving the horses and sheep off to 
pasture. The vast farm, with its miles of 
waving grain and mealie-fields, and rolling pas- 
ture lands, was one of the best cultivated in all 
the Transvaal. It was a model farm. 

The original little “ wattle-and-daub ” cot- 
tage, with its windows half hidden under creep- 
ers, was gone. In it Petrus had been born. 
Many years ago it had been replaced by a more 
pretentious homestead. Uncle Abraham had 
prospered. His huge granaries were always 
well-filled, and his Kafir farm boys, at the 


At “Weltefreden” 19 

kraals, just beyond the mealie-fields, numbered 
more than a hundred. It was their work to 
milk the cows, care for the beasts, and attend 
to the hardest work of the farm. 

Every morning, after breakfast, Uncle Abra- 
ham assembled the whole family for prayers, 
which Grandfather Joubert read with a simple 
impressiveness. Then a hymn was sung, and 
the family separated to take up their various 
tasks for the day. 

It was Petrus’ especial duty to mend all the 
broken-down wagons, make the halters and 
head-stalls for the ponies and horses, and, when 
hippopotamus hide could be procured, to cut and 
make the long lashes for the ox-whips. These 
were usually twenty-five feet long. Sometimes 
Mutla, 1 his favorite Kafir, could find time to 
help him. 

So, the first thing after breakfast, Petrus 
busied himself steeping bullock’s hide in water. 


1 “ Mutla ” means “ thorn.’ 


20 Our Little Boer Cousin 
Uncle Abraham had told him that the Kafirs 
were needing more whip-cord and leather rope. 
Then Petrus took it from the water, cut it into 
narrow strips about ten feet long, greased and 
bound it together into one long piece, after which 
he took it out and hung it from a high tree- 
branch, first weighting the lower end with a 
heavy wagon-wheel. When it was thoroughly 
stretched he took it down, twisted all the grease 
and moisture out of it, scraped it until it became 
supple, and then put it away for every kind of 
use on the farm. 

It was still early, so Petrus got out some large 
pieces of untanned leather. In the art of mak- 
ing “ veldt-schoens ” Petrus was an expert. He 
knew just how to cut and make them as soft, 
comfortable and silent; as Indian moccasins. 
Many a pair had his uncle and grandfather worn 
on successful bush-shooting expeditions, where 
silence and quietness were so essential. From 
Yettie’s and Theunis’ little feet up to grand- 


At “Weltefreden” 21 

father’s big ones he could fit them all. The 
whole family really preferred them to the shiny 
black boots purchased from the trader, which 
they always felt obliged to wear on high days 
and holidays — such as their semi-annual trips 
to the Johannesburg “ Nachtmaals.” On such 
important occasions the girls thought the trad- 
er’s black ones looked more appropriate, with 
their full bright print skirts and “ kappies ” — 
or polk bonnets — which they always wore with 
heavy veils, to protect their complexions from 
the hot rays of the African sun. 

Meantime Aunt Johanna was directing the 
Hottentot girls in their task of making the fam- 
ily soap and candles, while Magdalena and her 
little sisters were out in the kitchen having a 
great time cooking delicious “ Candy-Lakkers.” 
They were expecting company. 

By ten o’clock all work was stopped. Every 
one was tired. So the men’s pipes were brought 
out, with sweet cakes and hot coffee for all. 


22 Our Little Boer Cousin 

The Boers are such great coffee-drinkers that 
Aunt Johanna already had plenty of it ready. 
She kept it hot on her little charcoal stove all 
day, and served it morning, noon, and night to 
her family, and often between times, to passing 
friends. 

Unlike Uncle Abraham, who was a typical, 
tall, spare and straight Boer, with a long beard 
and grave but kindly face, Aunt Johanna was 
fair, plump and handsome. She was one of 
those affectionate, massive, large-hearted Dutch 
vrouws who are never quite so happy as when 
entertaining visitors. She loved to bestow upon 
her friends the best of everything, until “ Welte- 
freden,” which sheltered four generations under 
its broad roof, became known far and wide for 
its cordial hospitality. 

George and his father were among those who 
called at almost any time. Sometimes the lieu- 
tenant came by himself. No one was more wel- 
come. He came often to inquire of Uncle 


At “Weltefreden” 23 

Abraham concerning the work of the skilled in- 
spectors sent out by the “ Imperial Land Asso- 
ciation ” with seeds, implements, and much good 
advice. 

From his room-window, up under the hot gal- 
vanized iron roof, Petrus could see through the 
trees in the distance, the little dorp 1 railroad 
station, where the trains came puffing in twice 
a day with the mail. He could hear their whis- 
tles as they started out again on their way north 
to Johannesburg — sometimes bearing thou- 
sands of pounds of Marino wool from his un- 
cle’s fine flocks to be sold in Johannesburg’s 
great “ Market Square ” during “ Nachtmaal ” 
time, when great crowds of worshipers would 
be there to exchange their own market produce 
as well. 

Petrus gazed long and silently from his win- 
dow. His thoughts were following the reced- 
ing train as it flew on its way to the “ Golden 


1 Village. 


24 Our Little Boer Cousin 

City/’ where his Aunt Kotie lived. His face 
brightened. “ In three more years that train 
will speed on its way from the Cape to Cairo in 
Egypt ! That is over six thousand miles — but 
I must plan to go ! I must save up a great deal 
of money for such a wonderful trip! Oh, if 
only I can do it! In three years I shall just 
be through High School in Johannesburg,” 
thought Petrus joyfully to himself. “ But I 
shall miss seeing George all that time I ” This 
regret was genuine, for Petrus had grown very 
fond of his little English comrade, who, al- 
though nearly the same age, was a full head 
shorter. 

A Cape cart came spinning along the road 
towards the house. Petrus’ dog Hector was 
barking loudly. 

“ Oh, there they come now I ” exclaimed 
Petrus. His eyes sparkled as he sprang to the 
door to give them welcome. But Magdalena 
had reached the door first and was waiting out 


At “Weltefreden” 25 

on the stoop, where the Englishman’s cart had 
already stopped, and Mutla was busy in-span- 
ning their horses. Petrus and his sister led the 
way into the house where Aunt Johanna greeted 
them. She had invited them for dinner. 
Everybody was glad to see them. Even 
“ Katrina,” the large pet baboon, fastened at 
one side of the entrance, barked a loud “ hello ” 
as George passed, and a dear little playful gray 
monkey on the other side, chattered a friendly 
greeting as George stopped to give it a pat. 

In the central room, which served as draw- 
ing-room, music-room and study, the family had 
gathered to receive their guests. They were 
seated around in a circle — the women and girls 
being gorgeously arrayed in pink or green full 
skirts, tight waists and pearl necklaces. As the 
lieutenant and George went the rounds shaking 
hands in accordance with an old Boer custom, 
each greeted them heartily. 

Uncle Abraham and Grandfather Joubert, 


26 Our Little Boer Cousin 

who had been out in the fields all morning direct- 
ing the Kafirs, came in hungry for their dinner 
and glad to see the Wortleys. It was noon- 
time and the time when the heavy midday meal 
in all Boer households is served. So Aunt Jo- 
hanna led the way at once out to the clean, light 
dining-room, with its spotlessly white walls, 
where they took their places around the long, 
family table, standing silently, while Grand- 
father Joubert read a Psalm from the old, brass- 
bound Bible. Then Great-grandfather Joubert 
invoked the blessing with a long grace, to which 
everybody listened reverently with folded hands 
— even Petrus and George, who had been al- 
lowed places next to each other. 

Before Vrouw Joubert the coffee-urn 
steamed invitingly. She always superintended, 
and often cooked these meals herself, to which 
ten or twelve persons usually sat down. As she 
poured the coffee, several hideous brown-faced 
Hottentot girls, in bright calico dresses with col- 


At “Weltefreden” 27 

ored beads and ribbons, silently entered and 
stood ready to pass the plates. Magdalena 
served the excellently cooked mutton, vege- 
tables, rice-pudding, fruit, with good wholesome 
bread just fresh from the oven. Then 
“ konfyt ” — a sort of crystallized fruit — was 
passed to the boys, to spread on their bread 
and butter. 

Everybody ate silently for the most part, as 
is Boer custom. But Lieutenant Wortley com- 
plimented Vrouw Joubert on the excellence of 
her coffee, and added pleasantly: “Petrus 
must be getting to be quite a good young farmer- 
lad by this time, isn’t he? ” 

“ The best for his age in the Transvaal! ” 
proudly asserted Uncle Abraham. “ He is 
learning to use the cultivator, and becoming quite 
an expert at it, too. But I think Petrus likes 
sheep-farming best, don’t you, Koos? ” 

“ Yes, Uncle Abraham, sheep-farming is what 
I like best. There is no better grazing-lands in 


28 Our Little Boer Cousin 
all South Africa than the Transvaal has, and I 
always feel so proud of our great loads of snow- 
white wool, every bag stamped with 1 Welte- 
freden ’ in big letters on it, when we send it up 
for sale at ‘ Nachtmaal ’ time. When we go 
next week, am I not to stay a few days, and 
visit Aunt Kotie afterwards? ” 

“ Yes, Koos, if you like. My Kafirs are al- 
ready hard at work shearing the sheep. To- 
morrow the wool-washing down at the spruit 1 
begins, with the drying and packing after that. 
Perhaps George would like you to take him 
down there after dinner to watch the Kafirs at 
their shearing for a while.” 

“ Yes, thank you,” quickly answered the lieu- 
tenant for his son. “ And George is very curi- 
ous to see what was left of the devastated 
mealie-fields since that awful day last spring, if 
Petrus will be good enough to show him.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” agreed Petrus. “ I’ll have 


1 Little stream. 


At “Weltefreden” 29 

Mutla bring the ponies right after dinner. 
But, oh, Lieutenant Wortley, I do wish George 
could go with us up to the Johannesburg 
4 Nachtmaal,’ next week! ” 

44 My dear Petrus, I think George prefers 
to remain with his father. He has never yet 
fully recovered from that terrible fright Dirk 
gave us all last spring,” replied the lieutenant 
with a grave face. 44 George is truly home- 
sick for England — for our old home in Lon- 
don, and to be with his Aunt Edith again. I 
am seriously considering disposing of my farm, 
and returning with my boy, yet not without 
some regret, for the Transvaal has a bright 
future.” 

44 Oh, Lieutenant Wortley, please do not 
take George away! But if you do, and Uncle 
Abraham will let me, can’t I go along to see 
London? I’d be back here in time for High 
School. I’ll promise that.” 

Petrus had never seen the ocean, but George 


30 Our Little Boer Cousin 
had often told him of the great breakers that 
dash on the rocks at Cape Town, and of the 
wonderful ocean voyage he had coming from 
England — of London with its great Westmin- 
ster Abbey, and busy streets where no dark- 
hued Zulus went about terrifying everybody 
brandishing assegais. It had long been Pet- 
rus’ dream to travel — not only from the 
“ Cape to Cairo ” when the new road was done 
— but to cross the ocean to London. 

“ Next week, Petrus, George is going with 
me to Cape Town. We will visit the Govern- 
ment House and see the sights. How would 
you like to go with us there, Koos? ” affection- 
ately replied the lieutenant, who was as fond 
of Petrus as any Britisher could be of the best 
of Boer boys. 

“Great! I shall be delighted to go along! 
That will be a splendid trip, and my visit with 
Aunt Kotie will just be over then. Thank you 
so much, Lieutenant Wortley.” 


At “Weltefreden” 


31 

“ It is very kind of you to invite Petrus, 
Lieutenant,’’ assured Uncle Abraham. “ He 
will have a fine time, and can join you and 
George at the end of his visit.” 

The Hottentot girls carried around a towel 
and basin of water. After each in turn had 
washed, all stood while Great-grandfather Jou- 
bert returned thanks for the food, then with- 
drew to the music-room to hear Aunt Johanna 
sing. 

“ Petrus, come, let’s look through the 
i far-seer ’ 1 ” exclaimed George, picking up the 
telescope, and gazing through the window, 
towards the extensive orchard of standard 
peach-trees planted in long rows. 

“ Aim the ‘ far-seer ’ at the Kafir kraals, 
George. They are away beyond all those tall 
blue-gum trees — and beyond the mealie-fields, 
too. You’ve never seen the way Kafirs live, 
have you, George? I’ll take you over there 
some day.” 


32 Our Little Boer Cousin 

But George had turned the telescope onto 
the near-by trees and bushes, in whose branches 
and tops there seemed to be literally hundreds 
of cooing turtle-doves, and somber-hued, scar- 
let-billed finches, while far over the tops of the 
highest trees some hawks were silently circling 
about. Close by, in a pool of water, a number 
of shy little Hottentot ducks were happily float- 
ing around. 

“ They are different from our English 
birds,” said George. “ In England we have 
robin redbreasts, meadow-larks, swallows and 
orioles, but our birds do not have such brilliant 
feathers as these. Oh, I see Mutla with the 
ponies! Come on, Koos, now let’s go! ” 

“ Sh-o-o-o-o-h ! Aunt Johanna is playing 
for us on the organ. She’s going to sing. 
Come, listen!” protested Petrus under his 
breath. Petrus loved to hear his aunt and 
cousins sing Psalm-tunes with the organ. He 
could play many hymns fairly well himself. 


At “Weltefreden” 33 

While Aunt Johanna sang, Uncle Abraham 
and Grandfather Joubert got out some big 
cigars and smoked, as they listened, seated in 
large comfortable chairs. The girls sat as 
quiet as mice, applying themselves to their 
fancy-work and sewing. 

Presently Magdalena was asked to play the 
Volkslied, or national anthem. All stood up 
and joined heartily in the singing. Petrus and 
George watched their chance. When Franzina 
and Yettie began some badly played mazurkas 
and dance-tunes of their own on the concertina, 
they quietly slipped out. In a twinkling they 
were off on their ponies, which Mutla had long 
had waiting for them at the stoop. 


CHAPTER III 


A TRANSVAAL “ MODEL FARM ” 

“ Whoa, Ferus ! 

“ This won’t do, George. It’s too hot to 
gallop like that. Let’s go slower.” The flam- 
ing of the midday sun on the perspiring boys 
was becoming intolerable. 

“ I wish I had a pony like Ferus, Koos. He’s 
great ! ” 

“ Ferus is a Basuto. They are sure-footed, 
hardy little beasts for traveling in South Af- 
rica. They can travel from five to six miles 
an hour the live-long day — carrying heavy 
loads, too — and scarcely feel it. But the Cape 
ponies are the most wonderful ones for hunting 
and shooting. They aren’t afraid of anything. 
They are taught to stand still, half a day, some- 


34 


A Transvaal “Model Farm” 35 

times, right where you leave them, by merely 
turning the bridle over their heads.” 

“ Koos, did you ever go hunting?” asked 
George. “ Daddy says you Boer boys are 
trained to ride from the time you can walk, and 
to handle a gun as easily as an English boy 
does a cane. Is that so? ” 

“ Boer boys are all good marksmen, George. 
Once I had an older brother David. He was 
but thirteen — just my age — when the war 
broke out, and my father, grandfather and 
great-grandfather all took to horse and gun in 
defense of their country. You and I were not 
born then. Young as he was, he shouldered a 
musket and bravely fought at my father’s side 
until both were killed in the same terrible bat- 
tle. There was a whole regiment of Boer boys 
fighting in the war no older than was David. 
Some were even less. Many were only 
twelve. And they fought at the side of great- 
grandfathers of seventy and over. As for big 


36 Our Little Boer Cousin 
game hunting — I’d like to hear some of your 
father’s exciting experiences hunting in that aw- 
ful Kalahari Desert, George. Were you with 
him there long?” 

“No, Koos — a very short time. I can’t 
bear to talk about it. I never want to see the 
place again! That terrible Zulu, Dirk, was 
there! You ought to see all daddy’s trophies 
— beautiful pelts, Koodoo horns, hides, and 
ivory from many a fine tusker! Daddy had 
plenty of big game shooting — lions, elephants 
and everything! Several times he almost lost 
his life. But all that was before mother died, 
and Aunt Edith brought me here to father. 
But I want to go home.” 

“ But is the Kalahari Desert as bad as peo- 
ple say? ” 

“ Worse ! It’s just thousands and thousands 
of miles of burning hot sand. Nothing grows 
there but a few dried-up low Karroo bushes. 
My clothes were always all torn up by awful 


A Transvaal “Model Farm 55 37 

prickly bushes just full of long hack-thorns like 
fish-hooks.” 

“ ‘ Wacht-een-bigte ’ is what we Boers call 
them. It is a kind of cactus, or giraffe-acacia 
bush. The thorns are exasperating! ” 

“ And the only water one could get was from 
salty, hot, muddy pools nearly a hundred miles 
apart. That is why the place is called 1 The 
Great Thirst Land.’ Father says, too, that at 
night the hyenas came so close that once they 
stole his clothes as he slept.” 

“ W-h-e-w ! ” exclaimed Koos. 

George shuddered, as an ebony-faced black 
approached them. 

“ Now, George, don’t be afraid. That’s 
only Shobo, the Bushman. There goes your 
father and Uncle Abraham riding about the 
farm together. They have stopped away over 
by the willows, to watch the Kafirs branding cat- 
tle. They drive them inside that fence, fasten 
the gate, then quickly lasso each beast — one 


38 Our Little Boer Cousin 

by one — by the hind leg, trip it over, and ap- 
ply the hot iron. It doesn’t really hurt them, 
you know.” 

“ Petrus, what is this we are coming to ? 
Your mealie-fields? ” 

“ The mealie-fields, yes, but there’s not a 
blade of corn. The locusts left all uncle’s 
acres as bare as though burnt by a fire.” 

“ Do tell me about it, Koos. Couldn’t you 
stop them? ” 

“ Nothing could be done. We found the 
Kafirs from the kraals out in great numbers, 
galloping their ponies up and down between the 
long rows of corn, firing their guns, beating on 
tin cans, yelling and making the most hideous 
noise and racket, their packs of barking dogs 
following after them, hoping to scare the locusts 
away. But they had settled to stay. Oh, 
George, you just ought to have seen all the Kafir 
women gathering up the crawling insects — 
most of them over two inches long — into great 


A Transvaal “Model Farm” 39 
heaps, filling every kind of pan and pot, then 
roasting them over the flames and ravenously 
devouring them on the spot. The little Bush- 
children, too, gobbled them up greedily while 
they were still hot. They considered them 
great dainties, I’m sure. What they could not 
eat they carried over to the kraals, where the 
Kafir women ground them between stones into a 
sort of meal. They mixed this with grease 
and fat and baked it into cakes. Even the 
horses, dogs, cats and chickens gobbled the lo- 
custs up with a relish. Look! There goes 
funny little Shobo, trying to catch a pony for 
Aunt Johanna’s cart. Yes — Shobo’s catching 
him all right.” 

Before them, as they rode on, stretched miles 
of Uncle Abraham’s richest pasture-lands. 
Grazing about, in the afternoon sun, were great 
herds of his uncle’s fine horses, sturdy little 
ponies, mules, sleek herds of fat oxen, and great 
flocks of sheep and goats. 


40 Our Little Boer Cousin 

The contented lowing of the fat cattle, the 
soft bleating of the sheep and goats, was music 
in Koos’ ears. 

u Listen, George, don’t you like to hear it? ” 
asked the Boer boy. Like his uncle, Petrus de- 
lighted in the beauty and superiority of the 
farm-beasts, many of which he knew by name. 
They would come at his call. Petrus loved the 
vast farm. Even the name — u Weltefreden ” 
— was dear to him. 

George gazed about the scene of happy pas- 
toral life before him. His father had often 
told him of the pleasure the Boers took in the 
joys of their farm-life. He had heard him 
say that the Boers’ love for their pastoral life 
makes them believe that the Old Testament is 
all about themselves. No wonder the daily 
reading of the Sacred Book meant so much 
to them! George was beginning to understand 
what his father meant. Truly, the Boer farm- 
ers seemed to be trying to re-live in the Trans- 


A Transvaal “Model Farm 55 41 
vaal the ideal life shown them in the pages of 
Holy Writ. “ All those sheep, calves and goats 
across there are a part of Magdalena’s dowry. 
Magdalena is engaged to be married to the son 
of the Predikant 1 of our little Dutch Reformed 
Church — Hercules van der Groot. He asked 
her for an ‘ upsit ’ 2 at once. She will have a 
fine dowry, for uncle has been giving her part 
of all the new-born lambs, kids and fowls ever 
since she was little like Franzina and Yettie. 
He is doing the same for each of them too.” 

“ And I suppose your uncle will give you a 
great farm with cattle and beasts of all kinds 
for your own, some day, and then you will be- 
come a rich farmer like he is, and just settle 
right down here in the Transvaal forever,” sug- 
gested the English boy. 

“ ‘ Boer ’ means ‘ farmer,’ George. That’s 
what we all are — farmers. And do you know 
what ‘Transvaal’ means? It means ‘across 


1 Preacher. 


2 Evening call. 


42 Our Little Boer Cousin 
the Vaal River.’ And there’s no finer land or 
climate in all South Africa than ours. Many 
Boer sons do settle down on their fathers’ farms 
forever. Many are born, live and die right 
here in the Transvaal. Neither my grand- 
father nor great-grandfather were ever outside 
of South Africa. They were too busy fighting 
the natives. Uncle, of course, lost everything 
in the war. Since then he’s had no time for 
travel. But it’s different with me, George. I 
mean to see something of the world. I’m sav- 
ing all the money uncle gives me for travel. 
It’s a six thousand mile trip from Cape Town 
to Cairo. But when the great ‘ Cape to 
Cairo ’ railroad is finished three years from 
now, George, I’m sure I shall want to go. 
Maybe I can save money enough. Then I’ve 
heard so much about England. I want to visit 
London, and Westminster Abbey, and see every- 
thing.” 

“ Oh, Koos, if ever you do come to London, 


A Transvaal “Model Farm 55 43 

you must look us up sure. We will be glad to 
see you.” 

“ Thank you, George. I would not miss 
seeing you there. There goes ‘ old Piete ’ — 
our Hottentot wagon-driver — with a mule- 
team load of firewood. And here comes Mutla 
from the sheep-shearing. I hope the Kafirs 
are not all through. 

“ Mutla, what about the sheep-shearing? Is 
it all over? ” 

“ Yes, my master,” answered the Kafir. 

“ Well, George, I’m sorry we have missed it. 
Sheep-shearing days are always great days on 
the farm, when half a hundred Kafirs from 
the kraals are all worki-ng at once. They have 
been at it all this week. To’-morrow the wool- 
washing and drying begins. Then follows the 
packing for market. At the last count, uncle’s 
great flock of Merinos numbered six thousand; 
at least that is the nearest we could come to it, 
for there are so many that we never can be 


44 Our Little Boer Cousin 

sure exactly how many the jackals have taken 
over night. It’s fun, though, every morning 
to try to count them, as they follow each other 
just as fast as possible, leaping over the gate 
from the inclosure into the pasture. You ought 
to see clever little Shobo. Every time he spies 
a jackal he chases it into a porcupine’s hole, only 
to see it speedily driven out. Suppose we go 
over towards the Kafir kraals, George ? Shall 
we?” 

“ Oh, yes, Petrus, let’s do ! ” exclaimed 
George in delight. They were riding along 
through the willow, wattle and wild-tobacco 
trees bordering the pretty little spruit of clear 
water, where the wool-washing would take place 
to-morrow. 

It was George’s first trip to South Africa. 
He had never seen a Kafir kraal. He had 
heard that South Africa was a “ land of dia- 
monds”; that in “every stone the gold glit- 
tered ” ; that Vermillion flamingoes stand on the 


A Transvaal “Model Farm” 45 
river-banks gazing down at the little fishes; that 
gorgeous feathered beauties, flit through the 
African forests, glancing from branch to branch 
in the bright sunlight but that they had no 
song; that the Bushman’s dogs had no bark; 
that the flowers were without fragrance; the 
skies without clouds, and the rivers often with- 
out water. 

George wondered if he would ever see any 
of those strange wild animals with unspellable 
and unpronounceable names about which he 
had read so much in his African hunting and 
travel books — Koodoos, gemsbuck, wilde- 
beestes, bushbuck, waterbuck, troops of gnus, 
with tails like horses, and spiral horns glittering 
in the sunlight, spotted hyenas, droves of bless- 
bok, tsessebe, and a very strange animal called 
blaauwbok — whatever that could be. 

“ Petrus, I wish I could hide in the top of a 
very high tree and get a good look at a real 
Tsavo ‘ man-eater,’ and perhaps, just as he was 


46 Our Little Boer Cousin 
about to spring, a little Bushman, with nothing 
but his poisoned arrows, would come out and 
kill him.” 

“ I can’t promise you’ll see any terrible ‘ man- 
eaters,’ George, but you’ll soon see a Bushman 
or two, perhaps half a hundred black Kafirs, 
and maybe a — ” 

“Zulu?” broke in George. “Petrus, I’m 
going home. See those black clouds coming? 
It will rain soon.” 

“ Not a single Zulu ! I’ll promise you that, 
George. Uncle has not one on the place. 
Mutla has strict orders to keep them away. The 
Kafirs are perfectly harmless. They’re a good- 
natured crowd of fellows. You will like them. 
They are not real savages, George. Many of 
them are intelligent and anxious for education. 
Some of the best study in the negro schools of 
the United States. But most of them still live 
with their dogs, chickens, goats and other ani- 
mals all mixed up together in their kraals. The 


A Transvaal “Model Farm” 47 
‘ Red Kafirs,’ off in Bondoland, and the Trans- 
kei, on the coast; still mix red clay into their 
hair and cover their bodies with it.” 

“ I’d rather face all the Kafirs in Kaffraria 
than one Zulu, Petrus!” protested George. 
“ I’m never afraid of Mutla.” 

“ Wait until you see some of the happy-faced, 
laughing Zulus of Natal — the Durban ‘ ginrick- 
shaw ’ Zulu boys for instance. You will never 
be afraid of them. Zulus are not all dangerous 
— like Dirk. Many of them make good, hon- 
est house-servants, and are to be trusted. 
Kafirs work better in the fields. Fine speci- 
mens as many of them are, yet the best of 
them are not the equals of the magnificent big 
Zulus of Natal and Zululand — splendidly built, 
coal-black giants like Dirk.” 

“ Petrus, here come two Kafirs now ! ” whis- 
pered George. 

“ Those are Hottentots, George,” laughed 
Petrus. “ Don’t you see their tufty hair — all 


48 Our Little Boer Cousin 

little wiry balls with open spaces between, just 
like the Bushman’s. Both are little yellow- 
brown, flat-faced people who click, click, when 
they try to talk. The word ‘ Hottentot ’ means 
a ‘ Stammerer ’ or ‘ Jabberer.’ We cannot un- 
derstand their jargon, and Uncle Abraham and 
I have to talk to them by signs. The Kafirs 
scorn the Hottentots, and the Hottentots hate 
the pigmy Bushmen. They won’t work to- 
gether. There goes a little Bushman, now. 
They have no lobes to their ears. Many of 
them sleep out in the open — winter and sum- 
mer. On cold nights they sometimes lie so 
close to the fire that they blister their bodies 
until the skin peels off. But they are great lit- 
tle hunters. They always know where to find 
water. They will watch the flight of the birds, 
or spoor some animal to his drinking-place, and 
when on the hunt they’ll eat the flesh of any- 
thing, from an elephant to a mouse.” 

“Ugh! Snakes, too, Koos?” 


A Transvaal “Model Farm” 49 

“ Yes. Snakes, lizards, tortoises, grubs, 
frogs, locusts, flying ants, ostrich eggs, wild 
honey, young bees, nestling birds of all kinds, 
and all sorts of bulbs and roots they dig up with 
pointed sticks. And you know how their arrow- 
heads are always smeared with poison.” 

“ Ugh! Bushmen must be disgusting! No 
wonder the Kafirs hate them. I should, too ! ” 
protested George. “Look! Petrus, we’ve 
reached the Kafir kraals ! ” 

Spread out before them, just beyond a few 
tall trees, were twenty or more odd-looking huts, 
arranged in a semicircle. They could see the 
naked little black children playing about and 
hear their chatter. Beautiful herds of fat cat- 
tle, guarded by huge, dark-hued Kafirs, came 
slowly winding along the road past them, on 
their way to the cattle-kraals for their evening 
milking. It was almost sunset. 

“ Petrus, see those black clouds 1 It’s going 
to rain ! ” 


50 Our Little Boer Cousin 

There came a loud clap of thunder. Mutla 
galloped quickly across to Petrus. Springing 
lightly to the ground, he exclaimed: 

“Oh, my master, come quick to kraals! 
Rain, bad rain ! ” 

“ You are right, Mutla. George, come 
quick! We must hurry home! We are in for 
a drenching ! ” 

They put their ponies to the gallop and 
scampered over the soaking ground as another 
crash of thunder brought the water down in 
sheets. 

It was one of those frequent, heavy, sub-trop- 
ical downpours which come and go so quickly 
in the southern hemisphere. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE GREAT “ TREK ” 

Great-grandfather Joubert was a very patri- 
arch in years. A full century had passed over 
his head. They had all been such active years, 
full of stirring memories. Through his rugged 
features there shone the same big-hearted kind- 
liness which had marked all his days. 

Petrus loved him. No one could tell quite 
such fascinating tales as he; thrilling tales of 
early adventure and conquests; of hair-breadth 
escapes from wild animals and savage natives in 
the final conquering of the African Veldt; tales 
of the terrible “ Border Wars,” and of long 
wars against the British. 

To Great-grandfather Joubert his country’s 
history was sacred history. It had all taken 
si 


52 Our Little Boer Cousin 

place before his very eyes. In fact, he had 
helped to make it. Even in his eighty-fifth 
year he had scaled the Transvaal hills and done 
scouting duty with all but the agility of his sons, 
grandsons, and great-grandsons fighting bravely 
at his side. 

He often sat thinking it over. Few of the 
old “ Voor-trekker ” Boers were still living — 
those who had “ trekked ” in their great ox- 
wagons across the deadly “ Karroo,” finally to 
settle in the Transvaal. But that great “ Ex- 
odus ” — known in Boer history as the “ Great 
Trek of 1836” — was one of Great-grand- 
father Joubert’s most vivid memories. He was 
but a boy then. 

The mid-summer heat was so oppressive that 
Great-grandfather Joubert had asked to have 
his comfortable armchair moved over close by 
the open window, just above the syringa bush. 
He liked the scent. 

But two weeks now remained until Christmas 


The Great ‘Trek 55 53 

time — about the hottest season of the year in 
South Africa. In another week would come 
the yearly festival commemorating that tragic 
episode of December 16, 1836, “ Dangaan’s 
Daag,” when the immortal Piet Retief, with a 
number of the Voor-trekkers, left the main party 
and made their way down into Natal, only to 
be massacred by the Zulus. 

All day long Great-grandfather Joubert sat 
there beside the open window smoking his or- 
nate pipe filled with fragrant tobacco and read- 
ing from the large, silver-bound Bible on his 
knees, whose open pages were swept by his long, 
grizzly beard. He was- a typical “ Takhaar ” 
Boer. 

Aunt Johanna had brought him the Sacred 
Book, with some hot coffee and rolls. From 
the window he could see Uncle Abraham riding 
about the farm to see that his beas'ts were all 
right, counting his flocks, and superintending his 
Kafirs. 


54 Our Little Boer Cousin 

The Hottentot maids fetched him his dinner. 
Then Petrus brought him the latest Johannes- 
burg and London daily newspapers. He often 
sat and read to him carefully everything of in- 
terest — especially the latest “war-news” — 
which filled all the leading pages, nowadays, 
with accounts of the terrible “ world-war ” rag- 
ing throughout Europe between Germany and 
the Allies. Thus Great Britain — their 
mother-country — had been plunged into the 
fearful conflict. Great-grandfather Joubert 
wished he was younger that he might go him- 
self to fight for his king. “ Race-hatred ” had 
no place in his feelings. The Jouberts belonged 
to the more intelligent, unprejudiced class of 
Boers who had long ceased to regard the Brit- 
ish as intruders. He had always believed with 
Paul Kruger — the great Boer leader of his 
day — that “ Where love dwells prosperity fol- 
lows.” 

As he re-read the old story of the wander- 


The Great “Trek” 55 

ings of the Israelites in the Wilderness — they 
scarcely knew whither — the trials and hard- 
ships they had encountered — it seemed to him 
that the Sacred Book was telling the story of 
the “ Great Trek ” of his own people. The 
Boers, too, had wandered forth — had suffered 
hardship and injustice no less than had the pa- 
triarchs of old — he told himself. Closing the 
book, he folded his hands, and, leaning com- 
fortably back in his armchair, he gazed far 
across the grassy sweep of high veldt, with its 
red-brown scattered kopjes, towards the western 
horizon. Soon he was lost in the memories 
of a century. 

Softly the room door opened. In a twinkling 
Petrus’ arms were flung around the old man’s 
neck. 

“ A penny for your thoughts, Grandfather 
dear! Please let me stay here with you a 
while,” begged the boy. 

“Ah, Koos, is it you, my boy? Yes, yes, 


56 Our Little Boer Cousin 

you may stay a while if you do not ask too many 
questions. It is easy to guess your thoughts. 
Let me try. Your visit with Aunt Kotie at Jo- 
hannesburg next week. Your trip to Cape 
Town with Lieutenant Wortley and George. 
Hurrying back home in time for Christmas. 
Isn’t that right, Koos? ” 

“ Yes, Grandfather, and George is expecting 
a big Christmas box from his Aunt Edith in 
England. Now for yours’! ” 

“ I should have to take you back to the early 
days in the Old Colony, Koos, when I was but 
a boy like yourself. And, like you, I used to 
beg my old grandfather for ‘ stories ’ of his 
country, which was France. He was one of 
several hundred French Huguenots who fled 
from their own country to South Africa, because 
they could not worship as they liked. Those 
were happy days in the Old Colony there on 
our large, quiet farms, before British rule be- 
came intolerable. Our people were prosperous 


The Great “Trek” 57 

slave-holders. My father owned as many as 
eighty Hottentots. But as British oppression 
became more and more intolerable — our slaves 
liberated, and indignities of every kind heaped 
upon us — our Boer leaders resolved to endure 
no more and the great ‘ Exodus * — known in 
history as the ‘ Great Trek of 1836 ’ — began. 
I shall never forget those awful days. I was 
just a boy then.” 

“Why didn’t the Boers rebel? ” indignantly 
questioned Petrus. 

“ Rebellion was useless. But we knew of a 
vast land that stretched away to the north of 
us. To be sure, it was filled with savages and 
ferocious wild animals, but even that was prefer- 
able to British tyranny. There were about six 
thousand of us in all who left our fertile coast- 
land farms and trekked forth into the unknown 
wilderness in search of new homes where we 
could live in peace. One by one, we loaded 
up our huge ox-drawn wagons, which were to 


58 Our Little Boer Cousin 

serve as home, fort and wagon for many a long 
day on our journey. Inside these great covered 
wagons — ‘ rolling-houses ’ — the Zulus called 
them — the women and children were seated. 
Outside — tramping alongside as a guard — 
carrying their well-oiled, long-barreled guns — 
were the men. The older children helped to 
drive and round up the great flocks and herds 
which accompanied our migration. Well do I 
remember the cries of a small, bare-foot boy of 
ten, running at the head of a long team of tired 
oxen, which now and then quickened its pace at 
the touch of his sjambok. Who do you sup- 
pose that bit of a boy was, Koos? ” 

“ You, Grandfather? ” 

“ No, no, Koos. That little fellow was only 
about half my size then, but, since those hard 
days, he has four times ruled our glorious Trans- 
vaal as its President, and often fought with us 
all for our country’s freedom.” 

“ Oh, I know ! President Kruger ? ” 


The Great “Trek” 59 

“ Yes, Koos, that ragged little boy was none 
other than Paul Stephanus Kruger.” 

“ Go on, Grandfather. Did the Voor-trek- 
kers come straight to the Transvaal with all 
their covered ox-wagons and everything? ” 

“ No, Koos. There were the great desolate 
stretches of the ‘ Karroo ’ to be crossed, with 
such dangers and hardships by day and night 
that many of our oxen soon trekked their last 
trek. The loud gun-like crack of the long ox- 
whips, as they whirled over the poor oxen’s 
heads — and fell with a savage blow on their 
brown hides — to the driver’s yell : ‘ trek ’ ! — 
is still in my ears. Those whips, made from the 
hide of giraffes, were usually eighteen or twenty 
feet long. 

“ This great ‘ Exodus ’ — or ‘ the Boer May- 
flower trip ’ — as your cousins in New York 
City once described it — was full of all kinds of 
experiences and suffering. Vast herds of wild 
elephants impeded our way. Flocks of os- 


60 Our Little Boer Cousin 
triches, with herds of zebras, antelopes, gnus 
and quaggas, covered the plains in such vast 
numbers that at times the whole landscape was 
obscured. Poisonous snakes glided from 
among the bushes in front of us — and there 
was scarcely a rocky kloof or kopje but shel- 
tered a ravenous lion or leopard.” 

“ Oh, Grandfather ! and were your dangers 
over when you’d crossed that terrible Karroo? ” 

“ No, Koos, they were just beginning. All 
the Voor-trekkers did not go in one direction. 
They spread out like a fan from the Mother 
Colony, advancing by different routes. About 
two hundred followed Hendrik Potgieter to the 
banks of the Vaal, into the land we now call 
the Orange Free State. Another small party 
trekked its way down to Delegoa Bay where all 
but two perished from the horrible poisonous 
marshes. I was with the main party, which con- 
tinued on farther northward, and finally settled 
here in the Transvaal. Here we encountered 


The Great “Trek” 61 

the fierce Matebele, who attacked us in large 
numbers. Quickly we chained our wagons to- 
gether into a huge circle — making a 4 lagger ’ 
or fort of them, and fired on the savages from 
that ambuscade — our women bravely loading 
and re-loading our guns for us. They rushed 
madly upon us and fought like demons — stab- 
bing in through the spokes of the wheels. Des- 
perate as we were, Boers are good marksmen, 
and finally the Matebele were driven off, but not 
until many of our brave people were massacred, 
and six thousand head of our cattle and sheep 
taken. Then we had fifty years of terrible 
Kafir wars — Zulu wars — and Border Wars 
of the most horrible kind against the savage 
natives before we could possess the land — our 
own Transvaal — in peace.” 

“ Oh, Grandfather! Grandfather! I’m so 
glad your life was spared! ” cried Petrus, fling- 
ing his arms tightly about his great-grand- 
father’s neck. “ But you forgot to tell me the 


62 Our Little Boer Cousin 

story of 4 Dangaan’s Daag ’ and Piet Retief.” 
Petrus never tired of hearing of that famous 
march of the Voor-trekkers to Natal under 
their heroic leader, Piet Retief. History tells 
us it was comparable only to the march of the 
Greek Ten Thousand in Asia. 

“ No, Koos, I’ve told you that story a hun- 
dred times. I’m thankful I did not join that 
fatal party. One of your uncles went.” 

“ Was it Uncle Petrus Jacobus, Grandfather? 
The one who was made President next after 
Kruger, and who became a famous general? 
The one who was made commander-in-chief of 
all the Boer forces, and gained the victories of 
Majuba Hill and Laing’s Neck, against the 
British? The uncle whose name I bear? Oh, 
Grandfather, may I see his picture? The one in 
your old iron chest? ” begged Petrus excitedly. 

“ Here is the key, Koos. Lift out the things. 
It is in an old portfolio down in the very bot- 
tom.” 


The Great “Trek” 63 
One by one, Petrus spread the precious keep- 
sakes from the Boer war on the floor about 
the old chest. It was a strange collection. 
The first thing his hand touched, was an old 
“ bandoler ” — or cartridge-belt — heavy with 
unspent cartridges — now green with mold. 
Petrus laid it on the floor at his great-grand- 
father’s feet. Next came a long-barreled, old 
gun — the sight of which made Koos’ eyes 
sparkle with interest, but a tear fell down the 
old Boer’s bronzed cheek as he lifted the rusty 
Mauser and read the words cut on its stock thir- 
teen years ago : “ For God, Country, and Jus- 

tice.” Silently he examined it, but Koos could 
read in his flashing eyes that he was hearing 
again the distant rolling of artillery, the crack- 
ling of rifles, the shrieking of shells through the 
air — made bright by the sweeping searchlights 
of the enemy. Then Petrus lifted out an old 
broad-brimmed slouch hat. Embroidered on 
the band around its crown were the words: 


64 Our Little Boer Cousin 

“ For God and Freedom,” and sewed on one 
side of the upturned brim was a rosette of the 
“ Vier-kleur,” and the fluffy brown tail of a 
meerscat. A small roll containing a blanket and 
a mackintosh came next. 

“ Grandfather, I don’t see the portfolio,” 
protested Koos, who had about reached the bot- 
tom of the old chest. 

“ Go on, Koos, you will find it along with my 
old Bible — the one I read between battles.” 

Carefully Petrus lifted out a great silken flag 
and unfurled it — its bright horizontal stripes 
of red, white and blue, being crossed by a band 
of green — the “ Vier-kleur ” of the Republic. 
Within the folds of the old flag he had found a 
well-worn pocket Bible and the portfolio. 

“ Hand me the flag, too, Koos,” said the 
old man. He touched its silken folds tenderly 
— almost with affection. “ This flag belonged 
to the days before the annexation of the Trans- 
vaal to Great Britain — before our present 


The Great “Trek” 65 

4 Union of South Africa * existed. Its colors 
tell of the time when the Transvaal was the 
4 South African Republic,’ Koos.” 

44 Shall we always have to fly the 4 Union 
Jack ’ in the Transvaal, Grandfather? George 
says it helps him to feel more at home down 
here.” 

44 It may be God’s will, Petrus. Let us hope 
that the worst of our troubles are forever over. 
During the thirteen years since peace was signed 
between Great Britain and the Transvaal our 
friendly relations have been deepening. A new 
era of progress, prosperity and peace seems to 
have come for the Transvaal. Our future 
looks bright.” 

44 The portfolio, Grandfather? Is Uncle 
Petrus’ picture there? And tell me all about 
his great victories of Majuba Hill and Laing’s 
Neck, won’t you? I’ve never heard enough 
about them.” 

44 I can’t talk of those days, Koos. Divine 


66 Our Little Boer Cousin 

favor guided our footsteps, and, victories though 
they were, those days cost us many of our best- 
loved kinsfolk — even your little thirteen- 
year-old cousin Martinus, who fought so bravely 
in the ‘ Penkop Regiment * — a whole regiment 
made up of school-children like himself. There 
were also great-grandfathers like myself. Paul 
Kruger was seventy-five, and hundreds of his 
gray-haired burghers fighting with him were 
even older. Your Uncle Petrus, when in com- 
mand of all the Boer forces, was very close to 
seventy. 

“We never wanted to fight and kill our fel- 
low-beings. It was heart-rending to us,” con- 
tinued the aged man, vehemently, as he handed 
Petrus the picture of General Joubert. “ All 
we asked for was peace to cultivate the soil, 
and worship together. But every burgher in 
the Transvaal — from President Kruger and 
your Uncle Petrus down to little Martinus — 
swore to yield his life’s blood rather than fail 


The Great “Trek” 67 

to defend his country’s right to freedom. For 
that their fathers had suffered and died.” 

“ I’ve heard Uncle Abraham say that it was 
just a 1 Wait-a-bit ’ peace the Boers signed in 
1902, Grandfather. Do you think so? ” 

“ No, Petrus. Loyalty to the mother coun- 
try is deepening in the Transvaal every day. 
Premier Botha and all his people are ready to 
fight in her behalf at any time. Now run along. 
There comes George galloping across to see you, 
Koos. I’ll put these things back in the chest 
myself.” 

“ Thank you, Grandfather dear, for all 
you’ve told me,” called back Petrus, as he 
bounded downstairs to meet George, who had 
come to take part in the short twilight games 
of the early tropical evening which Petrus, 
Franzina, Yettie and Theunis always played to- 
gether just before dinner-time. 

Scarcely had darkness given place to a bright 
moonlight than Magdalena’s favorite “ fre- 


68 Our Little Boer Cousin 


yer ” 1 — Hercules van der Groot — came rid- 
ing over on his “ kop-spuiling ” courting horse 
— tossing his head, prancing and jumping all 
the way (being sharply bitted and curbed for 
the purpose). As Hercules always liked to 
look very imposing on these important courting 
occasions he had decked himself out in a fine 
yellow cord jacket, vest and trousers, changed 
his veldt-schoens for a pair of shiny tight pat- 
ent-leather congress gaiters, above which he 
wore a pair of showy leather leggings. Waving 
gracefully in the breeze from one side of his 
broad-brimmed white felt slouch hat was a tall 
ostrich plume — and in his pocket he had not 
forgotten to place a nice box of “ Dutch Mot- 
toes.” He had ridden twenty miles from his 
father’s farm Vergelegen . 2 

Upon Aunt Johanna’s inviting him to enter, 
he politely shook hands with each member of the 
family, then seated himself in a corner against 


1 Suitor. 


2 “ Set aside.’ 


The Great "Trek” 69 

the wall, patiently waiting for an opportunity 
to speak alone with Magdalena, when he quickly 
whispered in her ear: “We’ll set oop this 
necht.” 

Finally, after the family had retired, Magda- 
lena appeared dressed in a pink dress with 
bright ribbons of every shade, and much jewelry 
encircling her neck. In one hand she carried a 
match box and in the other a piece of candle, 
which — to Hercules’ delight — he noticed was 
a long one. According to rigid Boer etiquette 
he must depart when the candle had burned out. 
Together they lighted the taper and placed it 
upon the table alongside the plate of “ Candy 
Lakkers ” which Magdalena had that morning 
made especially for her freyer, who produced 
his “ Dutch Mottoes.” As Hercules kept an 
eye on the diminishing candle, anxiously guard- 
ing it from drafts, seeing to it that it should not 
flit or flare, and trimming it from time to time, 
he told her how much he admired her uncle’s 


70 Our Little Boer Cousin 

new horses, how well the oxen looked after the 
rain, and other such interesting things — not 
forgetting to assure her that he loved her very 
much. But as time flies with lovers so with 
lights, and the interview was abruptly termi- 
nated, but not before it was agreed they should 
be married on New Year’s Day, and that their 
honeymoon trip should be to the Victoria Falls 
on the Zambesi. 


CHAPTER V 

A BOER “ NACHTMAAL ” 

For two days Johannesburg’s great “ Market 
Square ” had been filled with out-spanned heavy 
ox-drawn wagons. Uncle Abraham and Petrus 
had arrived with hundreds of other Boer 
farmers from the surrounding country, for the 
semi-annual “ Nachtmaal ” — which really 
means “ night meal ” or “ Sacrament.” It 
was always an occasion of great excitement and 
bustle. For, besides the “ Divine Service,” 
which lasted all day, there was the pleasurable 
excitement of meeting old friends, making new 
ones, shopping, selling, and putting through of 
business deals. Most of the burghers brought 
their whole families with them. But Uncle 
Abraham and Petrus had had to come alone this 
year. Great-grandfather Joubert was not very 


7 1 


72 Our Little Boer Cousin 

well. They greatly missed Aunt Johanna, 

Magdalena and the children. 

Aunt Kotie had urged them to stay with her. 
But because of the big load of wool he had to 
sell, Uncle Abraham thought it best to remain 
in the “ Market Square ” where all the transac- 
tions were made. 

To the Boer youths and maidens “ Nacht- 
maal ” meant a time of baptisms, confirmations, 
engagements, and marriages. After the services 
of the day were over, Boer sweethearts met 
under the blinking stars in the shadow of the 
tent-wagons and repeated love’s old story to 
each other. 

Half way to Johannesburg they had halted 
their wagon at a little “ Negotic Winkel,” or 
store, to lay in a good supply of sweets — “ Lak- 
kers ” and “ Mottoes ” — of which both Uncle 
Abraham and Petrus were inordinately fond. 
As they had decided to eat alongside their 
wagon they purchased also numerous boxes of 


A Boer “Nachtmaal” 73 

sardines and sweet biscuits. Coffee they had 
brought from home. 

The first “ Divine Service ” began at seven 
o’clock in the morning. The last was not over 
until long after dark. Before each service — 
if there was no business to be transacted — the 
men lingered about the church door discussing 
their crops, the latest hail storm or drought, 
their children and their troubles with their 
Kafirs. The women and girls gathered in chat- 
tering groups about the tent-wagons, in their 
stiff, new print dresses and heavily piped black 
“ kappies ” — well-lined and frilled, for the sake 
of protecting their complexions from the strong 
African sun. 

At the first peal of the organ all trooped into 
the church, the “ Kirkraad ” — dressed in black 
with white neckties — entering first, with the 
minister, or Predikant, and seating themselves 
up in the front pews before the pulpit. Then 
the solemn rites began. 


74 Our Little Boer Cousin 

During the brief spaces between services Un- 
cle Abraham and Petrus visited the various 
stores, carefully attending to the half-yearly 
shopping for Aunt Johanna. Uncle Abraham 
also disposed advantageously of his farm prod- 
uce. He had never brought to market a better 
clip of wool than this. For it he had just re- 
ceived the very satisfactory price of three hun- 
dred golden sovereigns. Of this he had imme- 
diately paid out one hundred and fifty pounds in 
necessary household and agricultural purchases, 
such as a new cultivator, coffee to last until the 
next “ Nachtmaal,” barbed-wire and a large sup- 
ply of strong, new wool-sacks. He was sorry 
to be deprived of Aunt Johanna’s help. 

But together he and Petrus made their pur- 
chases, always hurrying instantly back to their 
pew in the church at the first sound of the bell 
from the little “ bell-tent.” As, one by one, the 
items on the long list were purchased and crossed 
off, the home-load in the big wagon mounted 


A Boer “Nachtmaal” 75 

higher and still higher, until by evening it would 
hold no more. 

It had been a good “ Nachtmaal.” The in- 
spiring services, old friendships renewed, the 
large number of marriages and engagements, 
and the golden sovereigns in his pocket, all told 
him so. He handed Petrus a generous amount, 
telling him he might need it on his trip. The 
sun was sinking in the west, and the trek back to 
the farm a long one. So he in-spanned his long 
team of oxen just as Aunt Kotie’s motor came 
whizzing up for Petrus. The boy hesitated. 
It was his first trip away from home alone. He 
had never been parted from his dear Uncle 
Abraham. 

As he jumped into her car he could see 
through the gathering dusk many fathers of 
families, Bible in hand, standing in their wag- 
ons conducting evening service. Aunt Kotie’s 
driver was a Zulu, he noticed, but not with 
alarm. 


76 Our Little Boer Cousin 

“ Trek! ” yelled Uncle Abraham to his oxen. 
Aunt Kotie had just promised him she would 
go with Koos to Kimberley and put him safely 
in Lieutenant Wortley’s care. Petrus waved 
“ good-by ” as the big wagon rolled off and 
vanished in the deepening twilight. 

Aunt Kotie lived in Parktown, the most fash- 
ionable quarter of the great metropolis. Next 
morning, from her upper veranda, Petrus got a 
wonderful bird’s-eye view over the city, and off 
to the Mageliesberg Mountains. South of the 
city, as Aunt Kotie explained, the Vaal and 
other streams of the Orange River glided 
through gorges to the Atlantic Ocean, while 
northward they flowed to the Limpopo, and 
then on into the Indian Ocean. 

Petrus noticed that a huge, black-skinned 
Zulu, who eyed him narrowly from time to time, 
served them at breakfast, and that still an- 
other black giant — a particularly evil-look- 


A Boer “Nachtmaal” 77 

ing fellow, under whose tread the very earth 
shook — helped him and his aunt into the wait- 
ing motor car for their sightseeing ride. Aunt 
Kotie explained that native boys did all her 
work. She found them more reliable than white 
help. 

As they drove down broad streets, past great 
stone and marble buildings, palatial club-houses, 
fine churches, museums, and the High School, 
Aunt Kotie saw that something was wrong. 
The people walked briskly and excitedly about 
the streets. Ugly rumors of anti-German riots 
had reached her. “ Market Square,” of yester- 
day’s peaceful “ Nachtmaal ” was now filled 
with striking miners, who were in open revolt, 
she was told, having already attacked and bat- 
tered in the offices of the Rand gold mines. 

So Aunt Kotie ordered her Zulu driver to 
keep far away from the “ Market Square,” and 
instead of visiting the gold-fields they would 
motor up to Pretoria and back — the Union’s 


78 Our Little Boer Cousin 

capital city, which would be sure to interest 

Petrus. 

In fact, Petrus was having his first glimpse of 
a great city. Johannesburg was the equal of 
any great metropolis of Europe, Aunt Kotie 
told him. It was the wonderful “ Golden 
City ” he had long wished to see. He had 
never been beyond the u Market Square ” be- 
fore. The “ City of Midas,” it had been 
called since the discovery of the famous “ Wit- 
watersrand ” or “ White Water’s Ridge ” south 
of the city. 

As they sped in the direction of Pretoria, 
Petrus gained a panoramic view of gold mine 
after mine, from which fabulous wealth had 
been dug. Vast reservoirs, then mills, with a 
long row of great iron chimneys came in sight, 
and the roar of batteries crushing the quartz 
containing the gold reached their ears. 

“ These mines must be as rich as the Klon- 
dike, Aunt Kotie ? ” questioned Petrus. 



“ IT WAS A LONG, LOW, ONE-STORY COTTAGE, HALF-HIDDEN 

BY THE ROADSIDE TREES” 






A Boer “Nachtmaal” 79 

“ Hundreds of times as rich. And we are 
told that buried beneath Johannesburg still lies 
more gold than the world ever saw.” 

As their motor entered Pretoria’s “ Market 
Square ” the band was playing to a gathering of 
the townsfolk. They could not pause to listen. 
It was nearly evening, barely time in which to 
give Petrus a hasty glimpse of the Capital’s 
streets, and especially of the “ Kantoors,” the 
government offices for the Union of South Af- 
rica, of which General Botha had long been 
“ Premier.” 

Before leaving Pretoria Aunt Kotie declared 
that Petrus must see Paul Kruger’s old home, if 
only for one glance. It was a long, low one- 
story cottage, half-hidden by the roadside trees 
and shrubbery. Marble lions guarded either 
side of the entrance to the broad, shady stoop, 
where on many an afternoon President Kruger 
had enjoyed his coffee and smoked with his 
burghers. 


8o Our Little Boer Cousin 


“ * Oom Paul ’ his people called him. Every 
Boer loved him. He was the close friend of 
your uncle, General Joubert, who commanded 
the Boer forces, and, of course, your father, 
grandfather, great-grandfather and Uncle 
Abraham, all knew him well,” explained Aunt 
Kotie. “ Now for home. To-morrow there’ll 
be more sightseeing for you, Koos,” added his 
aunt, who was becoming very fond of her bright 
young nephew from “ Weltefreden.” 


CHAPTER VI 

OVER THE “ GREAT KARROO ” TO CAPE TOWN 

A fearful dust-storm was raging over the 
Kimberley veldt. Gusts of sand and dirt blew 
into their faces as Aunt Kotie kissed Petrus 
good-by. He had just promised to spend his 
winter at High School in Johannesburg with 
her. Lieutenant Wortley and George were glad 
to see their little Boer friend again, but they 
feared a violent thunderstorm and drenching. 
The wind was unroofing houses, blowing down 
trees, and filling the air with rubbish and dirt 
at a terrific rate. 

So the lieutenant hailed an old vehicle. 
There was just time between trains for a glance 
at the famous Kimberley diamond mines, which 
Petrus had never seen. The wheels of the old 
vehicle often sank a foot deep as it rattled along 


81 


82 Our Little Boer Cousin 
through clouds of dust, past miserable cor- 
rugated-iron shanties and mounds of debris, left 
after the diamonds had been sorted out. Kim- 
berley seemed to lie in a sea of sand. 

To Petrus, the mine looked like a great hu- 
man ant-hill whose inhabitants were all surging 
busily about at hard work. They paused at 
the brink of the gigantic caldron-like hole to 
take a look far down at the hundreds of naked 
Kafirs whose bodies looked no larger than rab- 
bits. A man approached and asked if they 
would not like to be taken down. So they 
jumped into a hoist, from which a bucket of the 
precious “ blue-stone ” had just been discharged, 
and soon found themselves at the bottom of the 
vast crater. It was a wonderful sight. There 
it was that the most beautiful gems in all the 
world were found! 

Hundreds of demon-like figures, hard at work, 
were emerging from the earth and reentering it 
on all sides. They were chiefly Kafirs. 


Over the “Great Karroo 55 83 

“ Oh, I wonder which one of these wretched- 
looking Kafirs is Mutla’s poor, sick brother, 
Diza ! ” exclaimed Petrus. “ Mutla told me 
he is afraid Diza will die if he doesn’t get away 
from this underground work here. If only he 
had the money he said he could get farm 
work in Rhodesia. I heard the Predikant of 
uncle’s church say there were continual deaths 
among these wretched Kimberley mine boys who 
cannot get away,” continued Petrus, anxiously 
scanning the black faces for one that might re- 
semble Mutla’s. 

The boys hoped to catch a glimpse of a dia- 
mond. The ground had all been squared off 
into different claims — which had cut it up into 
blocks, cubes and rectangles. Each claim had 
its own wires and trollies bringing up the pre- 
cious “ blue ” to the surface. As the countless 
tubes of the aerial tramway glided rapidly back 
and forth — upwards and downwards through 
the labyrinthine network of wire-rope stretching 


84 Our Little Boer Cousin 

over the sides of the mine — the vast abyss 
seemed filled with flights of birds fluttering to 
and fro. 

“ Uncle Abraham told me the story about the 
finding of the first rough gem here,” said Petrus 
to George. “ The children of a Dutch farmer 
had a small soapy-appearing stone for a play- 
thing. They thought it was nothing but a peb- 
ble. But a visitor noticed the strange stone 
one day and offered to buy it. The mother 
laughed and gave it to him gladly. Then it 
was examined by many experts and pronounced 
a valuable diamond.” 

“ That was the beginning of one of the great- 
est industries the world has ever known,” added 
the lieutenant. “ Then from the ‘ Premier 
Mine,’ near Pretoria, was taken the great ‘ Cul- 
linan diamond,’ which weighed a pound and a 
half. That was the most valuable diamond 
ever found, its value being $2,500,000.” 

“ And it was called the ‘ Star of Africa,’ and 


Over the “Great Karroo 55 85 

presented to King Edward, wasn’t it, Daddy? ” 
exclaimed George. 

“ Yes, George. And part of it is set in His 
Majesty’s scepter and part in his crown,” ex- 
plained the lieutenant, as they were bobbing 
along in the same old vehicle through the sand 
and dirt and wind-storm for their train. Soon 
they were whirling towards Cape Town. 

For nearly two nights and days the train con- 
tinued on its way over vast stretches of arid 
plains. Only a few small, dried-up, lavender- 
colored “ Karroo ” bushes here and there were 
seen, with now and then a flat-topped kopje. 
They were crossing the “ Great Karroo ” — a 
region of limitless sky and sand. Desolation 
marked every mile of the way. 

“ It’s just like that Kalahari Desert, Father! 
Some of it has gotten inside this car, too! ” pro- 
tested George. A fine white alkaline powder 
had penetrated the car, sifted into their bag- 
gage, down their collars, into their eyes, hair, 


86 Our Little Boer Cousin 

and everywhere it should not be. Even the food 
tasted gritty. All the next day they were still 
passing over the same great burning waste of 
sandy, sun-swept veldt. “ ‘ Karroo ’ is a Hot- 
tentot name, meaning dry or barren,” Petrus ex- 
plained. Even the river-beds were dried up. 
Towards evening, when a sudden hard rain fell 
over the dry tussocky grass, the effect was mag- 
ical. Hundreds of wild flowers burst suddenly 
into bloom, glowing brightly in the wilderness. 

The boys’ excitement in watching for the pos- 
sible appearance of elephants and giraffes on the 
“ Karroo ” was giving way to doubt as none 
appeared. Petrus had read of as many as five 
hundred giraffes in one herd. 

“All that, Petrus, was before the natives 
were given fire-arms,” explained the lieutenant. 
“ They were allowed to kill most of them off, 
but there are still plenty of leopards and hyenas 
left.” 

“ I’ve heard you say, Daddy, that before 


Over the “Great Karroo” 87 
Livingstone came and civilized the natives, white 
people scarcely dared live in Africa at all,” in- 
terrupted George. “ Then, after he taught 
them ’and doctored and protected and helped 
them, they called him ‘ Messenger of God.’ ” 

“ Yes, before Livingstone the Englishmen be- 
lieved that Africa was a place little better than 
the Kalahari Desert, with its villainous salt 
water,” declared the lieutenant, with a scowl at 
the memory. 

“ Oh, Lieutenant Wortley! One of Aunt 
Kotie’s Zulus looked exactly like that Zulu who 
threw his assegai at our cart that day. He 
eyed me closely every minute. I believe he is 
that very one ! ” excitedly exclaimed Petrus. 
“ Aunt Kotie said he’d not been with her long.” 

“ Dirk? He’d better keep his distance from 
George and me if he knows what is good for 
him ! ” said the lieutenant, with a threatening 
look. 

“ Yes, Dirk! That’s just what Aunt Kotie 


88 Our Little Boer Cousin 

called him. I wish he’d go back to Zululand or 
the Kalahari Desert and stay there forever! ” 
exclaimed Petrus. The view was fast changing 
from the “ Karroo ” and becoming more rugged. 
The train curved in and out of the narrowing 
valleys and zigzagged up and down between 
beautiful ravines and rugged kloofs. Soon the 
lofty cathedral-like jagged peaks of the Hot- 
tentot’s Holland Mountains came in view. Be- 
fore the boys scarcely knew it they had reached 
Cape Town and were rushing through the city’s 
streets in a tram for their hotel. 

“ Oh! ” exclaimed both boys at once, as they 
caught a fine view of towering “ Table Moun- 
tain.” They wanted to go at once down to the 
dock where they could get a better view of it, 
but the lieutenant said they must have some- 
thing to eat first and rest a bit. 

“ But we are not tired! ” protested the boys, 
as soon as they had eaten a slight meal. So 
their sightseeing commenced at once. The 


Over the “Great Karroo” 89 
streets of the Colonial metropolis were thronged 
with a strange medley of busy humanity. 
Ladies in carriages bent on shopping, Europeans 
in white suits, turbaned Malay priests in gor- 
geous silken robes, and British officers and sol- 
diers from the barracks — everywhere. There 
had been violent anti-German riots, so that now 
strong forces of police, soldiers, and fire bri- 
gades were all being held in readiness to stop 
further disturbances. General Botha had is- 
sued a message of protest. 

After the lieutenant had taken George and 
Petrus down Adderly Street — the Broadway 
of Cape Town — and shown them the Parlia- 
ment and Government Houses, the Fine Arts 
Gallery and the South African College, where 
Koos expected some day to study, the boys 
begged to be taken down to the dock. 

The Malay driver of a passing hansom cab 
soon left them at the dock, where they found a 
strange and motely crowd of shabbily dressed 


90 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Kafirs, sea-faring men, scantily clad Kroomen 
from the coast, Russians, Greeks, Italians, Dutch 
and Polish Jews — all coming and going, with 
here and there Malays, whose wooden sandals 
with their strange toe posts, made a clattering 
noise as they walked. 

Beneath the towering granite wall of “ Table 
Mountain ” — with its summit enveloped in a 
perpetual cloud-mist — lay “ Table Bay,” whose 
cobalt-blue waters looked smooth as glass — 
save for the long curving line of tidal ripples 
where the water and yellow sand met. A 
swarm of drowsy sea-fowl lightly rose at the 
approach of a ship. The thought thrilled Pet- 
rus. He was enjoying his first glimpse of the 
ocean. 

“ This is one of the most beautiful ports in 
the world,” said the lieutenant, as he hailed a 
passing motor for a drive along the famous 
“ Kloof Road.” Soon they were passing 
through Cape Town’s beautiful and picturesque 


Over the “Great Karroo” gi 
suburbs with its villas half-buried in sub-tropical 
foliage. Although there remained but a few 
days until Christmas, flowers were blooming 
everywhere, roses, purple-blossomed “ kafir- 
boom,” in airy sprays, spiky aloes with their 
blood-red flowers, lobelias, and the lovely 
“ Lily of the Nile ” which bloomed the year 
round. 

Barely time remained for a quick run out to 
see 44 Groote Schuur,” the fine old home of 
Cecil Rhodes — a handsome, low, gabled resi- 
dence, with an avenue of towering pines leading 
up to it. 

“ And was Rhodes buried, like Livingstone, in 
Westminster Abbey? ” asked George. 

“ No,” replied his father. 44 He was buried 
on the summit of a lonely mountain in the heart 
of the great land he developed for England — 
Rhodesia. His tomb, which was cut out of the 
native rock, lies in a spot full of grandeur, which 
he loved and called: 1 The View of the World.’ 


92 Our Little Boer Cousin 
A part of his dream for the development of 
Africa was the vast scheme, now nearing com- 
pletion, of the ‘Cape to Cairo’ railroad — a 
great British stretch of steel from Cape Town to 
the Mediterranean. People laughed at the wild 
project of a railway that should run through 
the entire length of the African continent. 
Much of the route — all that part in the region 
of the Equator — would pass through territory 
inhabited by wild and war-like native tribes, and 
jungles infested by lions and other wild beasts. 
But Rhodes toiled away at his vast undertak- 
ing until to-day its completion is a matter of 
but a few more years.” 

As they passed Newlands, at the foot of the 
mountain, Petrus and George noticed many pic- 
nickers and gay coaching parties “ too-tooing ” 
along the beautiful “ Kloof Road.” Farther 
on, a lively game of cricket was being played by 
fine athletic-looking British and South African 
boys side by side, and there were Malays, in red 


Over the “Great Karroo” 93 

fezzes and gorgeously colored blazers, playing 
an interesting game of golf. 

Petrus’ one beautiful day of sightseeing in 
Cape Town was about over. Already darkness 
was fast settling over “Table Mountain” and 
the city below it, as the little party returned to 
their hotel through the business streets of the 
city, which they found thronged with the troops, 
police, and immense crowds which had gathered 
in a rather threatening spirit, and were singing, 
as with one voice, “ Rule Britannia.” In large 
headlines all the evening papers told Cape 
Town’s citizens the startling news that one more 
great power had gone mad and thrown herself 
into the fearful “ world-war.” 


CHAPTER VII 

A KAFIR PARTY AT THE CHIEF’S KRAAL 

It was Christmas Day. In the ideal mid-sum- 
mer weather, neighbors and relatives rode over 
in groups all morning, until the farmhouse 
gathering at “ Weltefreden ” was a large one 
by the time Petrus reached home. Aunt Jo- 
hanna had lengthened the tables until thirty 
were seated for the big Christmas dinner, which 
she and Magdalena together had prepared. 
The genuine spirit of hospitality was felt by all. 
Songs by Aunt Johanna herself, splendid stories 
by Uncle Abraham, with recitations and organ- 
playing by the children had followed. 

There was to be a dance in the evening in 
honor of Magdalena and Hercules, and “ cross- 
country ” riding parties had been formed for 


94 


A Kafir Party 95 

the afternoon. Aunt Johanna’s gift of gracious 
hospitality always made Christmas and New 
Year’s Day rare occasions, long to be remem- 
bered. 

Over at Lieutenant Wortley’s a surprise 
awaited George. With his “ Christmas box ” 
from England had come his beloved Aunt Edith 
herself. She could only remain until New 
Year’s Day, but for George’s sake she had taken 
the long trip to South Africa. It was George’s 
first Christmas without his dear mother. Aunt 
Edith was afraid he would be homesick. As the 
a tree ” was to be a large one, with a dance, and 
presents for all, she told George he might invite 
all his little friends from Johannesburg and the 
surrounding farms. 

Of course Petrus promised heartily to be 
there, then added over the telephone — Boer 
children and grown-ups, too, can now u call up ” 
their friends on the telephone just as do our 
American boys and girls — “ come over this 


96 Our Little Boer Cousin 

afternoon, George, can’t you? Uncle Abraham 
promised that I should go to the Kafir children’s 
party — if only for a few minutes. The 
Chief’s giving the party himself. He always 
gives his people an ‘ ox-roasting,’ you know, on 
New Year’s Day. It’s their ‘ Ancestral Meat 
Feast.’ This year, because of Magdalena’s 
wedding, Uncle Abraham promised him three 
oxen with which to celebrate. Perhaps that is 
why he has invited me to their party. Anyway, 
I shan’t enjoy it without you, George. Will 
you come? ” 

There was a pause. “ Aunt Edith says I can 
go, Koos, if I’m sure to be back home here be- 
fore dark — before supper-time. She’ll be wor- 
ried if I’m not. Are you ready to start now? ” 

“ Yes, George. Ride over on your pony. 
I’ll be waiting for you at the front stoop on 
Ferus.” 

“ All right, Petrus,” came George’s hearty 
reply, and by the time Petrus had Ferus up- 


/ 


A Kafir Party 97 

saddled, George had arrived, and together they 
started to the kraals, passing on the way gay 
parties of Magdalena’s friends at the tennis 
courts, and others on the croquet lawns, enjoying 
themselves in the shade from the orchard trees. 

As the Kafir party was to be a very special 
occasion, with over a hundred little black chil- 
dren present, elaborate preparations for several 
days past had been under way at the Chief’s 
kraal. The older girls had made fine bead- 
work, grass and copper-wire bangles for their 
wrists, arms, knees, ankles and waists. They 
softened up the skins of wild animals and 
worked them prettily, making leathern aprons 
to wear. Most of the girls smeared their 
bodies over with a fine powdered soft stone 
mixed with oil or fat, while nearly all the boys 
plastered white paint over themselves, and the 
little children tattoed their bodies with pointed 
sticks, or made circular burns on their arms. 

On the morning of the party — Christmas 


98 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Day — the mothers anxiously gave a final touch 
to their children’s toilet by a special coating of 
grease, and sent the boys off to catch rats, mice 
and birds with which to delight their guests’ ap- 
petites, and instructed all — for the hundredth 
time — not to forget to be especially polite to 
the Chief. 

As Petrus’ and George’s ponies galloped up 
to the Chief’s kraal — or the “Great Place,” 
as it was called — they could see long strings 
of gayly decked little black children all hurry- 
ing from the different huts over to the “ Great 
Place,” which was, of course, by far the largest 
of all the kraals in the great semi-circle which 
looked for all the world like a gigantic fairy- 
ring of mushrooms with elongated stalks — for 
their upright poles reached as much as five feet 
before their tops were lashed to the thatched 
roof, with “ monkey-rope.” 

Arriving at the “ Great Place,” all the laugh- 
ing, fat, little black childern swarmed about the 


A Kafir Party 99 

narrow doorway, which was but a foot and 
a half high, then got down on their hands and 
knees and crawled in the kraal. 

Petrus and George struggled through after 
them. Inside, the air was dense with smoke 
which made their eyes smart. About the mud- 
walls rested bright bunches of assegais, and 
small stabbing knives were stuck into the thatch. 
In single file all the children walked up to the 
Chief, by whose side stood the sturdy little 
“ Bull of the Kraal ” — or “ Crown Prince ” as 
we might say — and pausing a moment before 
him, saluted him with the word: “ Bay- 
ette!” which means “Great Chief.” Then, 
discovering Petrus and George, they crowded 
around them, yelling: “Azali!” “Azali!” 
which is just Kafir for “A present! A pres- 
ent! ” Knowing what to expect, Petrus came 
prepared with a large box of “ Candy Lak- 
kers ” which he presented to the little “ Bull 
of the Kraal.” 


100 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Then came the most important event of the 
party — the refreshments, which consisted of 
such delicate titbits as fried mice, locusts, 
mutton, goat, and old hens, which had been 
roasted over the embers. 

After all had been gobbled up, various vio- 
lent games, such as “ Horses,” “ Wolf,” and so 
on, were played by the children. Many of the 
bigger boys crawled about frightening the 
younger ones, pretending to be lions. 

Petrus and George, beginning to tire of all 
this, were about to thank their kind host, the 
Chief, for their pleasant afternoon, mount their 
ponies and strike out for home. They peered 
anxiously through the kraal door to see if their 
ponies were all right. It was nearly dark. 
George looked anxious as he recalled his prom- 
ise to his Aunt Edith. “ We must go ! ” he 
said to Petrus. 

“ All right, George. I think so, too. Come 
on. It’s late ! ” 


A Kafir Party 101 

Just at that moment there appeared the 
“ Great Wife,” as she was called. Of all the 
Chief’s many wives she was his favorite — the 
“ wife of his heart ” — and the mother of the 
little “ Bull of the Kraal,” who was heir to the 
chieftainship. 

“ Mabiliana ” was her name. Petrus and 
George had long heard of her beauty. They 
had heard, too, that five men had been assegaied 
before she became the undisputed property of 
the gallant Chief, who had paid the large 
“ lobola ” 1 of fifty of his fattest oxen for 
her. 

All the pickaninnies hailed her appearance 
with a great shout of joy. They crowded about 
her, clamoring for “ A story I ” “ A story ! ” 

“ Just one moment longer, Petrus — just till 
she begins her story,” promised George, as 
Mabiliana gracefully seated herself before the 

1 Payment in cattle, without which no Kafir marriage was 
legal. 


102 Our Little Boer Cousin 

children who quickly ranged themselves in a cir- 
cle on the floor about her feet. 

Her dress was in keeping with her beauty. 
A broad band of blue and white beads encir- 
cled her forehead, while hanging in a grace- 
fully pendant curve over her eyelids, sparkled 
another string of the same white beads giving 
to her eyes a languid look. About her slender 
round throat were negligently hung many more 
sparkling strings. Bead and brass bracelets en- 
circled her wrists, arms and slender ankles, 
where also was noticed a fringe of monkey’s 
hair, while fastened about her waist was a little 
leathern apron, tastefully ornamented with blue, 
red and white beads. 

“Which shall it be, children? The ‘Story 
of the Shining Princess ’ or ‘ Nya-Nya Bu- 
lembu,’ ‘ The Fairy Frog,’ or ‘ The Beauty and 
the Beast’?” asked Mabiliana, very grace- 
fully taking a pinch of snuff from time to time. 

“The Beauty and the Beast!” shouted all 


A Kafir Party 103 

the little blacks with one voice. That story is 
a great favorite with Kafir children. 

“ Then ‘ The Beauty and the Beast ’ it shall 
be,” sweetly assented the young Kafiress. 

Mabiliana was really distressed at being 
urged to tell a fairy-story by daylight. To do 
so — according to all Kafir traditions — was to 
invoke the wrath of a wicked spirit. Many a 
beauty had been known to become as hideous 
as an “ Imbula,” or ogre, after that. But 
rather than refuse the children, many of whom 
she loved dearly, Mabiliana decided to tell the 
story, then she asked for a piece of glass. 
Tucking this quickly into her hair, to ward off 
the evil, she combed her woolly locks over it, 
using the long mimosa thorn which she carried 
stuck through her ear. Then carefully replac- 
ing the thorn, and, taking a pinch of snuff, she 
began her story. 

The children listened in breathless, big-eyed 
silence. Spellbound they held their breath as 


104 Our Little Boer Cousin 

the story reached the terrible moment when the 
“ Mollmeit ” appeared — the monster “ who 
killed and ate little girls, and — ” 

Outside the loud sound of approaching hoof- 
beats stopping at the kraal startled the boys. 

“ Oh, it’s daddy come for me ! ” whispered 
conscience-stricken George to Petrus, as he 
burst from the kraal into the inky blackness 
outside, calling: 

“ Daddy ! Where are you ? ” 

Petrus dashed after him. He heard one ter- 
rified shriek, followed by the thud, thud, thud, 
of a galloping horse’s hoofs — growing fainter 
and fainter, then silence, but for the loud cack- 
ling and barking of the hens and dogs. 

“George! Where are you? George! 
George ! ” frantically called Petrus, peering 
through the inky darkness in every direc- 
tion. 

Only the commotion among the fowls and 
dogs broke the dead silence. 


A Kafir Party 105 

“George! George!” louder called Petrus, 
in despair. 

There came no answer. 

Petrus looked about for the ponies. There 
they were both quietly standing just where he 
had left them. Shobo — the Bushboy — 
rushed up. 

u Cluck, cluck, click, click — nhlpr — nh ! ” 
he cried out, gesticulating wildly to Petrus, and 
pointing far off to the west. 

“ Oh, my master ! My master ! ” cried Mutla, 
galloping breathlessly up. “ The Zulu ! The 
Zulu ! He got Master George ! ” 

Petrus’ foot struck against something hard. 
He shuddered. There lay a six-foot long, iron- 
tipped assegai. One just like it fell into the 
flying cart that day. He had it yet. The hor- 
rible truth came home to him — George was 
gone! 

“ Quick, Ferus ! ” cried Petrus, springing into 
the saddle with the assegai under one arm. 


106 Our Little Boer Cousin 
Ferus shot over the ground at a slashing pace. 
Soon his master was within sight of Lieutenant 
Wortley’s home. The soft glow of evening 
lights came from the windows. From one there 
came the sparkle of many little candlelights. 
They were on a tree. Petrus could see 
George’s Aunt Edith carefully arranging the 
presents for the evening party — George’s 
party. 

They reached the door. Petrus sprang from 
Ferus and dashed up the steps, crying — 

“ Oh, Lieutenant Wortley! George is 
gone ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A STORM ON THE DRAKENSBERG 

Only low-growling Hector and little Theunis, 
looking down from his bedroom window, saw 
them silently depart. In the cold gray dawn- 
light Petrus waved a quick “ good-by ” up to 
the wondering child and they were off. 

Long before sun-up, faithful Mutla had had 
the three ponies up-saddled and waiting un- 
der the orchard trees. He had strapped a 
small roll containing a pair of blankets and a 
rain-coat to the front of his master’s saddle, 
and to that of the led-horse he had tied a large 
piece of biltong, or sun-dried meat, a good sup- 
ply of biscuit and coffee, and fastened an iron 
kettle in which to make it. Petrus had hur- 
riedly pressed a Testament into the pocket of 


107 


108 Our Little Boer Cousin 
his moleskin trousers, and made sure that the 
two Mausers they were carrying were well 
oiled. There was no time to lose. They 
hoped to overtake Dirk on the road. 

True, the lieutenant had offered a reward 
of five hundred pounds in gold to the one who 
returned his little son alive to him; but love 
for his little English friend and neighbor was 
the real motive for Petrus’ suddenly planned 
flight over the dangerous Drakensberg Moun- 
tains. 

All night long the lieutenant, heading a large 
searching party of his friends and neighbors, 
with half a hundred Kafirs, had scoured the 
neighboring woods and hills for some trace of 
George. In a fever of excitement, Aunt Edith, 
who spent the night at “ Weltefreden,” de- 
clared it was her belief that the poor boy must 
have been killed — assegaied — or thrown into 
some stream and perhaps devoured alive by the 
crocodiles. 



)) 


“THE SEARCHING PARTY 


CARRIED GREAT TORCHES 















































* 








A Storm on the Drakensberg log 

Aunt Johanna’s fears, too, were grave, and 
Magdalena plainly informed Hercules that 
there could be no happy wedding on New 
Year’s Day unless little George was captured 
from the Zulu, and brought home alive and 
well before that time. 

So all night the searching party, headed by 
the lieutenant, Petrus and Hercules, carried 
great torches of flaming grass and tree- 
branches, and flooded with light every deep 
game-pit, every clump of trees, kopje, and river 
bank. But no answer had come. So, at sun- 
rise, the party broke up and returned home. 
Grief stricken, the lieutenant with the aid of 
Hercules, immediately formed a large well- 
armed party of picked Kafirs and made straight 
for the Kalahari Desert. There it was he had 
first seen the threatening Zulu. There it was 
he would no doubt return with George — and 
perhaps take his revenge by selling George into 
slavery to the Bechuanas. It was a long trip 


no Our Little Boer Cousin 
back to that deadly “ thirst-land.” They had 
left by sunrise. Already the party was well on 
its way. 

But Petrus remembered one most significant 
remark of his Aunt Kotie’s. He remembered 
her telling him that Dirk had come to her from 
Natal, where he had been one of a gang of 
Zulu dock-hands, piling lumber at the wharf at 
Durban. She had also told him that Dirk’s 
people belonged to the great military kraal at 
Ekowe, in Zululand, near the Tugela River. 
Petrus believed Dirk was making his escape 
with George, taking the shortest cut back over 
the robber-infested Drakensberg Mountains to 
the docks. 

Moreover, Mutla — who, like all Kafirs, was 
an expert at “ following the spoor ” — had 
“ spoored ” the hoof-marks of the Zulu’s horse 
from the very door of the Chief’s kraal. The 
ground was still moist from recent rains, and 
Mutla’s keen eyes and quickness of perception 


A Storm on the Drakensberg ill 
had detected the grass bent down, and pebbles 
scattered leaving the wet side up-turned, and 
often the whole hoof-press of the horse clearly 
stamped in the soft ground. 

Mutla was certain he was following the very 
road the Zulu had taken. The hoof-marks led 
southwards, towards the Drakensberg Moun- 
tains. So for two days they traveled over the 
monotonous grasslands of the Orange Free 
State with its interminable thorn-bushes, until 
finally, as they neared the base of the mountains, 
the spoor was crossed and re-crossed by the 
cloven hoof indentations of the eland, the slip- 
per-like footprints of the giraffe, and the im- 
mense circular depressions made by the ele- 
phant, with now and then, to their horror, the 
dreaded print of the lion’s paw. Petrus and 
Mutla kept their rifles ready for instant use. 
As the trees grew thicker the whir of wings and 
sudden flash of brilliant plumage told them that 
feathered game was not wanting. 


112 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Suddenly there was a mighty rustling in the 
underbrush with the sound of breaking branches 
among the trees close to them. Mutla’s pony 
buck-jumped, carrying his rider headlong to the 
ground. Five elephants burst through the 
trees and dashed down an embankment on the 
left of the road to the water, where, with 
mighty gurglings and splashings, the monsters 
threw the water from their trunks in streams 
over their bodies, and a little baby elephant ran 
about with a tree branch playfully held in his 
trunk. 

“ Oh, Ba'as, 1 I thought it was lions sure! ” 
exclaimed the frightened Kafir. 

“ The big fellows didn’t even see us, Mutla, 
and I don’t think they would have charged us 
if they had. But let us water our ponies and 
hasten on our way.” 

They came out of the forest into a narrow 
and very winding road, and advanced at a trip- 


1 Master. 


A Storm on the Drakensberg 113 
ping pace. Soon they were zigzagging up the 
face of the Drakensberg — the loftiest and 
grandest mountain range in all South Africa. 
Soon the darkness of night would overtake 
them. Something made them think of robbers. 
But Petrus was not afraid. He was a daring 
rider. His horsemanship had received high 
praise from the lieutenant himself, and he had 
marked skill with weapons. He knew the posi- 
tion of the sun at all hours of the day, and of 
the stars by night. They could not stray far 
from their way. Mutla had Arab blood in his 
veins. With his keen, piercing eyes he could 
see all the dangerous roads and precipices in 
the dark. 

Ferus suddenly trembled violently. Petrus 
gave a quick glance into the trees close by. 
Crouching at full length, far out on a branch 
overhanging the stream, was a leopard glaring 
down, ready to spring. Instantly Petrus’ rifle 
was at his shoulder. The report sounded 


114 Our Little Boer Cousin 
through the forest, and the “ tiger-cat,” as 
Mutla called it, fell with a splash into the water 
below. 

“ Oh, my master, lions sure about here,” 
protested the still frightened Mutla, as Petrus 
dismounted and began to cut down branches with 
which to build a fire. With sun-down had come 
complete darkness there in the depths of 
the tropical mountain forest. 

“ Fires are our best protection against wild 
beasts. Come, let us prepare our supper, and 
sleep, for to-morrow’s journey is to be a long 
one.” 

Petrus fastened the ponies to a tree by their 
head-stalls, while Mutla piled on branches and 
sticks, making the little fire crackle and blaze 
up warmly as they prepared and ate their sup- 
per. 

Then, using their saddles for pillows, with 
their rifles at their sides and the blankets 
stretched on the ground under them, they fell 


A Storm on the Drakensberg 115 
asleep, but only for a short time. Soon they 
awoke to find the forest flooded with bright 
moonlight. It was light as day. Petrus 
reached for a high branch of a native tree. 
This he bent down and broke off a piece about 
four feet long. 

“ I’m making a ‘ knob-kerrie,’ Mutla. It 
may be useful to-morrow in killing snakes.” 
Some, like the venomous mamba, are nine feet 
long. Mutla watched Petrus as he skillfully 
formed the knob at one end. Then, aiming it 
at an imaginary beast far off among the trees, 
Petrus sent it spinning over and over through 
the air with a twirling motion, until it fell with 
a crash that reverberated throughout the for- 
est. Instantly the whole forest was alive. 
Mutla grew nervous as he watched the dark 
forms everywhere mysteriously moving through 
the trees. 

“ Keep your gun ready, Mutla,” advised 
Petrus. 


n6 Our Little Boer Cousin 

“ That I will, Baas,” promptly answered the 
black boy. 

After their night’s rest, the ponies made good 
time early next morning, climbing the ascending 
jagged roads. The path dropped at times into 
deep mountain valleys, then rose to greater 
heights until at last they reached the famous 
“ De Beer’s Pass,” — which led across the lofty 
peaks of the “ Dragon Mountains,” 1 to the 
Natal side. Only after hours of difficult scaling 
did the riders succeed in reaching this com- 
manding ledge, from which they obtained their 
first view of “ fair Natal,” stretching far below 
in all its beauty. 

More and more lonely and wild became the 
road as the descent was begun. Strange they 
had not overtaken Dirk yet. But they might 
at any moment. Gaunt crags rose all about 
them. From the trees overhead there came a 
flapping, hissing, struggling noise. Mutla 


1 Drakensberg. 


A Storm on the Drakensberg 117 
gasped and uttered a shriek, as swooping sav- 
agely down upon him from its lofty nest was 
an immense eagle of the “ man-eating ” species. 
Its wings must have measured six feet from tip 
to tip. One blow from Petrus’ knob-kerrie sent 
the “ man-eater ” flying from his prey. 

“ You have had a narrow escape, Mutla,” 
said Petrus, springing into the saddle, as a great 
peal of thunder sounded and the sky darkened 
suddenly. Scarcely could they get into their 
rain-coats before the storm broke. First one, 
then the other of the ponies, slipped on the soft, 
wet ground, but quickly recovered themselves. 
The ponies continued to lose their footing as 
they made the irregular, uncertain descending 
slopes, often passing by dangerous ledges, 
dongas and pools. So dark had it grown they 
could not see their pony’s ears in front of them. 

“ Follow me, my master, you’re going 
wrong,” came Mutla’s caution now and then, as 
they traveled on through the blackness. 


n8 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Late in the afternoon the storm ceased and 
the sun shone dimly. The dripping boys won- 
dered where they were, and how far they had 
traveled, when a lone rider passed them and — 
to their delight — told them they were among 
the monarch trees at the base of the mountain. 
He pointed the way to the nearest human habi- 
tation, the hut of a kind Kafir missionary where 
they could have supper and pass the night. 

Petrus was glad to learn that the kind 
Kafir was a very intelligent but aged mis- 
sionary who spoke the Zulu language. He 
lighted a fire for them to dry themselves, while 
Petrus related to him the events of the day and 
why he had undertaken so dangerous a journey. 

“ In search of the little English boy? The 
Natal papers are full of descriptions of the Zulu, 
the offer of the reward, etc. Only yesterday 
just such a powerfully built Zulu, dragging a 
little lame white boy by the hand, came begging 
food at my door. When I began to question 


A Storm on the Drakensberg 119 

him he left suddenly, but not before I learned 
from him that he was on his way to Durban.” 

“Oh! That must have been Dirk! The 
boy must have been George ! ” cried Petrus, 
with sparkling eyes. “ Mutla, up-saddle the 
ponies at once ! We have no time to lose ! ” 

“ No, wait until morning. Your ponies are 
tired. The road from here to Durban is a 
rough one at best. Even the bravest would not 
be foolhardy enough to undertake it by night,” 
insisted the old missionary. 

“ You are right. We will sleep to-night. In 
the early morning, long before you are up, we 
will be far on our way. Good-night, and thank 
you for all your kindness,” said Petrus, handing 
the kind Kafir a sovereign to aid him in his 
work. 

“ Then ‘ good-night,’ my boy, I wish you suc- 
cess and God-speed.” 


CHAPTER IX 


A ZULU WAR-DANCE 

It was a glorious December morning. Petrus 
and Mutla were again in their saddles. Lady- 
smith and a near-by ostrich farm were soon left 
far behind. Then they forded the historic Tu- 
gela, which barely came up to their ponies’ 
knees. 

They made good play at a swinging gallop, 
threading their way in and out through Natal’s 
tree-covered hills. 

The country through which they were hasten- 
ing was of indescribable beauty — a veritable 
fairyland with its rushing streams, beautiful for- 
ests of sweet-scented evergreens, graceful palm- 
trees and masses of strange and beautiful wild- 
flowers. 


120 


A Zulu War-Dance 121 

Petrus and Mutla were in the land of the 
black man, from the melancholy-faced Hindoo 
cooly to the blackest of black Zulus. 

Gliding nimbly in and out through the bushes, 
or creeping slyly up in the tall grass, were 
bunches of swift-footed Zulus. Petrus shud- 
dered, and closely scanned each black face for 
Dirk’s. Thousands of their beehive-like kraals 
were thickly scattered over every hillside they 
were passing. 

“ Look out for Dirk, Mutla. We may pass 
him on the road at any moment,” sternly cau- 
tioned Petrus, as they hastened on through Na- 
tal’s tropical valleys and uplands. 

They paused at Pietermaritzburg. There 
the papers were full of the story and the offer of 
the large reward, but no trace of the stolen boy. 
Realizing that Durban must be reached at once, 
if Dirk was to be overtaken, they changed their 
pace into an easy gallop and dashed on their 
way towards the coast, past many large banana 


122 Our Little Boer Cousin 
and sugar-cane plantations. A cooling breeze 
was brushing the hillsides, for it had rained hard 
during the night. 

It was only about noon when they reached 
Natal’s beautiful seaport — the “Pearl of 
South African Cities,” as Durban has been 
called. Petrus made straight for the land- 
locked harbor. Above — on one of these beau- 
tiful terraced hillsides overlooking the Indian 
Ocean — he could see the handsome residences 
of the Berea, where dwelt Durban’s prosperous 
business men. 

“ Dirk would neither be working there, nor 
as a jinrickshaw-boy in the busy streets of the 
town,” thought Petrus, as they hurried on to the 
docks. There he found hundreds of powerfully 
built, broad-chested, coal-black Zulus, all hard at 
work piling great beams of wood in orderly rows 
on the wharf. They sang as they worked. Pet- 
rus scrutinized every ebony face but saw no 
little white boy among them. 

















♦ 















A Zulu War-Dance 123 

“ Look close, Mutla. Dirk worked here on 
this dock once. He may be here now.” 

Just as that moment a gust of wind sent a 
Durban morning paper fluttering against Ferus’ 
feet. Dropping quickly to the ground, Petrus 
caught it before it was gone. 

“ Mutla ! ” he exclaimed excitedly. “ Quick, 
Mutla! We’re going to Zululand! We can 
reach there before dark if we try. The paper 
says that Dirk was seen working here on this 
dock late yesterday afternoon, and that he sud- 
denly disappeared with the boy in the direction of 
the swamps of Saint Lucia Bay, where many are 
following him. But Dirk will never go that far. 
He will turn aside and make straight for his 
kraal at Ekowe. Come! We’ll get George yet ! ” 

Petrus hastily sent the following telegram to 
Lieutenant Wortley : 

“ Am safe. Shall reach Dirk’s kraal at Ekowe, in 
Zululand, before night. Hope to start home with 
George by morning. Petrus.” 


124 Our Little Boer Cousin 

The heart of Zululand was but a few hours 
away. With a word to Ferus, and a spur-thrust 
to Mutla’s brown pony, they dashed forward at 
a swinging pace. Ahead of them, as they 
topped each rise, rose the romantic hills of Zulu- 
land — the clear atmosphere making them 
plainly visible. Through the trees on their 
right every now and then they got blue glimpses 
of the Indian Ocean. 

Once Ferus swerved and trembled violently. 
There — lying coiled up in a ring in the center of 
the road — Petrus saw a great hooded Ccbra, 
the largest and most deadly of South African 
reptiles. Ferus was leaping in terror. Before 
Petrus could rein him in, the viper rose on its 
tail, hissed, and made two strikes at Ferus’ feet, 
then escaped through the grass into a hole at the 
root of an old tree. 

On they sped through the beautiful coast for- 
ests. Every now and then bunches of dark- 
eyed, woolly-pated, naked Zulus, with skin 


A Zulu War-Dance 125 

carosses thrown over one shoulder, appeared 
and as suddenly disappeared. No sooty face 
missed Petrus’ quick eye. Once he heard the 
shouting and laughter of a group of good-na- 
tured young Zulus ahead of him. With glis- 
tening bodies they were emerging from the clear 
waters of a spruit into which they had just 
plunged themselves. Presently, from out the 
bush on his left, there stole a huge coal-black 
lone Zulu carrying an iron-tipped assegai. In- 
stantly Petrus’ rifle was at his shoulder. But 
it was not Dirk. 

In the gathering dusk the roadway was be- 
coming full of dangerous turns and slopes. 
Ferus never made a false step. Over many a 
bridge the ponies clattered on their way. At 
last they were in Zululand, once the land of 
“ Chief Chaka,” and of powerful “ Ketch- 
wayo,” whose warriors proudly called him 
“ Strong Mighty Elephant.” It was in Zulu- 
land that Empress Eugenie’s son, the Prince 


126 Our Little Boer Cousin 

Imperial, had been slain by the fierce 
blacks. 

The glare of the setting sun was behind them 
as they turned in the direction of the famous 
Zulu military kraals of Ekowe. Cutting 
through the undergrowth of rank luxuriance, 
they went at top speed. Often the Zulu grass 
met above their ponies’ ears. Presently they 
emerged into a more open, grassy space where 
they passed a half-wild herd of Zulu cattle con- 
tentedly feeding. They were beautiful little 
creatures. 

“ Mutla, we must be very near the Ekowe 
kraals ! ” excitedly exclaimed Petrus, “ other- 
wise this herd of Zulu cattle would hardly be 
grazing here! Look out for Dirk! ” 

They had gone but a short distance farther 
when three mounted Zulus with strings of birds 
around their necks, rode slowly up, glared at 
them and passed on their way. In a little while 
their ears caught the sound of girls’ chattering 


A Zulu War-Dance 127 

voices. Then a group of dusky Zulu beauties, 
scantily clad in skins and beads, strolled across 
their path and disappeared. Soon they passed 
whole troops of cunning little black urchins 
laughing and playing together. Petrus slack- 
ened his pace somewhat. One little group 
stopped to stare in wide-eyed wonder at the 
white riders. Then one little naked savage 
came running directly up to the ponies in the 
most friendly fashion. 

A quick low whistle brought Ferus to a full 
stop. She patted the pony affectionately, and, 
smiling up to Petrus, chattered something to 
him in Zulu, which was equivalent to : “ How 
do you do, great white Chief? ” 

Petrus handed the youngster a sixpence and 
asked: “ Dirk? Where’s Dirk? ” 

u Dirk? Want Dirk? ” repeated the friendly 
child, with a brightening look and quick nod 
of recognition of the name. “ Dirk there — 
kraals ! ” she gladly explained, pointing down 


128 Our Little Boer Cousin 
the road, then ran laughingly back to her com- 
panions with the sixpence. 

“ Oh, Mutla ! Dirk surely must be here ! 
Keep in the shadow of the trees. Everything 
depends upon our not being seen.” 

“ Yes, Baas,” answered Mutla somewhat 
nervously, as they began to wend their way 
through the city of two hundred or more armed 
kraals arranged in several great circles — one 
lying within the other like so many great gar- 
lands spread over the grass. Shields and spears 
were everywhere stuck into the thatch of the 
numerous large beehive-like huts made of wat- 
tles or poles, the upper ends of which were bent 
over and lashed together with a strong vine 
called “ monkey-rope.” The lower ends were 
firmly fastened into the ground. They had in- 
deed reached the far-famed Zulu military kraals 
of Ekowe, where dwelt the garrison of the 
King’s army. But for a pack of yelping, bark- 
ing dogs, which dashed viciously out at 


A Zulu War-Dance 129 

the pony’s heels, all seemed silent and 
deserted. 

“ Turn back among the trees! ” commanded 

V 

Petrus. “ We must get out of here quickly ! ” 
The ground under the trees into which they had 
abruptly turned for shelter was literally covered 
with strange trophies of Zulu prowess with wild 
beasts — leopards’ skulls, Rhino horns, lions’ 
teeth and claws, jackals’ tails and skins, os- 
triches’ eggs and feathers, with great heaps of 
bones and broken assegais. An array of game 
was hanging from the trees. 

Suddenly the sound of hundreds of voices 
reached them from far in the distance. 

“ Listen, Mutla ! The sound comes from the 
direction of that great open plateau, far across 
there. What can it all be about?” exclaimed 
Petrus, whose heart was filled with new hope. 
Cautiously emerging to the edge of the woods, 
they beheld a scene to make one’s blood run cold. 
There — far across on the opposite plateau — 


130 Our Little Boer Cousin 

charging in a frenzy of excitement, brandishing 
their battle-axes and assegais, yelling and whirl- 
ing their knob-kerries, was the whole garrison of 
mounted Zulus. As Petrus and Mutla watched, 
their yells broke forth into their ancient “ war- 
song ” to which Ketchwayo’s victorious armies 
had marched. 

“ Mutla, they surely can’t be on the war- 
path ! It must be an imaginary battle they are 
fighting. We must slip up closer and closer, 
keeping well out of sight ourselves, but where 
we can see if Dirk is among them. It will soon 
be too dark to see. Look well, Mutla ! ” 

“Master afraid?” questioned the paling 
Kafir. 

“Afraid, Mutla? Why should we be 
afraid? Are we not both well armed?” an- 
swered the Boer boy, as they crept closer and 
closer, taking advantage of every tree and 
wooded knoll to conceal their approach. Soon 
they were within forty yards, and evidently un- 





19 


THE WHOLE YELLING MASS MADE ANOTHER WILD CHARGE 






A Zulu War-Dance 131 

observed. The warriors’ ox-hide shields and 
high-poised assegais gleamed in the setting sun, 
as, stamping the earth furiously, the whole yell- 
ing mass made another wild charge. Petrus 
kept his hand on his rifle and a bullet in his 
mouth. The Zulu’s eyes blazed. 

“Oh, Mutla, look! Look quick! The big 
Zulu there is Dirk! And, Mutla, that little 
bit of a lame boy in the midst of the ‘ war 
dance ’ is — george ! It’s george ! Look ! 
Dirk banged him over the head with his shield. 
He’s crying. Oh, if only we could let him know 
in some way that we are here. He’s looking 
this way ! I am going to wave my hat ! Quick, 
Mutla, wave to him ! There, he saw us ! He 
waved his arm to me ! He’s smiling now. See 
him? ” Petrus wanted to shout for joy. 

“ Yes, Master. But how dare we get him 
away from Dirk? ” 

“To-night, when Dirk is fast asleep, George 
will come to this very tree where he saw us. 


132 Our Little Boer Cousin 
We can’t remain here. It’s too exposed. But 
he will find this note. I’ll stick it right through 
a high tree-branch here — where he’ll be sure 
to see it. I’ll make it so big that he can’t miss 
it. There now. Quick ! Let us make our es- 
cape back among the trees, Mutla ! ” 

Scarcely had Mutla followed Petrus back out 
of sight than the entire shrieking, savage regi- 
ment swept down over the very spot where, but 
a moment before, their ponies had been standing. 

“ Dirk didn’t see us, Mutla. He didn’t look 
this way at all. But I saw George look right at 
the big note up on the tree. He’ll come.” 

Long was the night. At last Petrus thought 
he heard the joyful sound of two or three 
swiftly running steps behind him. Petrus lis- 
tened again, but he was not certain, when — 
“ Petrus! Petrus! ” he heard close behind him. 

Springing from Ferus, Petrus turned to search 
for the voice. 

“George! George! ” he cried softly in joy, 


A Zulu War-Dance 133 

as a little lame boy came limping out from be- 
hind a big tree and bounded forward into his 
arms. 

“Petrus! Take me home! Take me 
home ! ” he cried. “ Quick, before Dirk comes ! 
Dirk tried to make a Zulu of me, Petrus, 
and — ” 

A great rushing sound of wheels drowned the 
rest of George’s sentence. It was a large 
motor-car — for even in far-off Africa they 
have automobiles — with two armed passen- 
gers, which swung directly up to them and 
halted. 

“Oh, Daddy! Father! Father!’* cried 
George, throwing himself into his father’s 
arms. 

“George! George! my precious boy!” 
cried the lieutenant, seizing his child with a look 
of great joy. “ Here, Petrus, jump into the 
car beside Hercules. You have won George’s 
and my everlasting gratitude. Mutla, take this 


134 Our Little Boer Cousin 

money and bring the ponies home by freight. 
Good-by. We’re off for home! ” 

“ Good-by, Mutla, and thank you for coming 
with me,” called back Petrus, as the big car 
whirled out of sight. 


CHAPTER X 


PETRUS THE HERO 

It was on the afternoon of New Year’s Day 
— the day of Magdalena’s wedding — that they 
reached home. It was one of those bright mid- 
summer afternoons for which the Transvaal is 
famous. From the windows and doors of 
“ Weltefreden ” soft lights glowed, and the 
merry strains of fiddles and an accordion 
reached the ears of Lieutenant Wortley, Petrus, 
and a happy little English boy sitting between 
them, as the big car whirred up to the old 
farmhouse stoop. 

The long row of saddles against the red brick 
wall told of the large number of gayly decked 
riders who had already arrived — many of 
whom were standing in groups outside, shak- 


es 


136 Our Little Boer Cousin 
ing hands, drinking coffee and discussing Petrus’ 
heroism, as they watched the unloading of Cape 
carts, wagonettes, spiders, horse and ox-wagons 
full of Dutch vrouws and children, whose bright 
dresses flashed gayly in the sunlight. 

Every now and then the crack of a whip an- 
nounced the arrival of Boer families of greater 
means, in conveyances ostentatiously drawn by 
four, six, or even eight horses, according to their 
wealth. The men-folks, in tight patent-leather 
oxfords, courteously helped their showily dressed 
vrouws and daughters to alight, while Hotten- 
tot nurses took care of the blond little girls in 
bright prints, and their little brothers in new 
mole-skins. Hercules had already arrived. 
He had hastened on by train, when the lieutenant 
had paused at Ladysmith to consult a doctor 
about George’s lame foot. 

“ Oh, there’s Aunt Kotie’s motor ! ” exclaimed 
Petrus, as he and George bounded into the big 
house — Petrus straight into Aunt Johanna’s 


Petrus the Hero 137 

outstretched arms, while George rushed to his 
Aunt Edith, who nearly smothered him with 
hugs and kisses. 

“ Petrus is home ! Petrus is home 1 ” flew 
from one to another until the whole gathering 
had heard the good news. All knew he had 
won the “ reward,” for Aunt Kotie had brought 
the latest Johannesburg paper giving the full ac- 
count. All had been thrilled by the story of his 
daring rescue of George. Now that he was 
safely home again, every one present crowded 
about to shake hands with their young hero. 
Scarcely had the blushing boy recovered from 
this ovation when he found himself enveloped 
in the arms of the happy bride who, 
with Hercules, had just returned from the 
church. 

Then Lieutenant Wortley spoke: 

“ As you all know, our brave Petrus has won 
the reward offered for George’s rescue. The 
amount has been on deposit in gold in the Na- 


138 Our Little Boer Cousin 
tional Bank of South Africa as advertised. Let 
me therefore take this opportunity of making 
good my promise — here before this gathering 
of his friends and relatives — by now writing 
out for Petrus an order on the National Bank of 
South Africa for the five hundred pounds he 
has so well won. 

“ Much as I rejoice at the finding of my own 
little boy, Petrus is the real hero, and I want 
to express the overwhelming sense of gratitude 
which both George and I feel towards this brave 
young lad. 

“ Petrus, there is no one we would rather have 
had win this reward than you — especially as it 
is to be the means of your some day coming to 
England to take your college course at Oxford 
with George. 

“ We return to England at once. My coun- 
try needs my services at the front. But in the 
* years to come there will never be a more wel- 
come visitor at our old home in London than 


Petrus the Hero 139 

our daring little Boer friend from ‘ Welte- 
freden.’ ” 

“Good-by, Lieutenant Wortley! Good-by, 
George dear!” stammered Petrus — his eyes 
sparkling and his sun-burnt cheeks aglow 
with pride, as, waving a last farewell to the 
English friends he had grown to love, he dashed 
from the room amid a great clapping of hands 
and more congratulations. 

He was glad to make his escape up to his own 
little room — to think. He had so much to 
think about. Oh, everything was possible now ! 
Mutla’s poor sick brother should be saved from 
death in the Kimberley diamond mines at once. 
And, as for his own great trip over the new 
“Cape to Cairo” road? Why, yes! He 
could now take Aunt Johanna and the whole 
family with him. Then there was London! 
His college course at Oxford, England, and, 
best of all, he would again see George! Won- 
derful dreams for the future thronged the mind 


140 Our Little Boer Cousin 

of our little Boer cousin as he gazed from his 
window towards the star-lit heavens in the midst 
of which burned the Southern Cross. 


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shall Saunders, author of “ Beautiful Joe's Para- 
dise,” “ Tilda Jane,” etc. 

Library 12mo, cloth decorative. Illustrated by E. B. 

Barry $1.50 

Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and 
triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose 
devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. 


BORN TO THE BLUE. By Florence Kimball 
Russel. 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . $1.25 

The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on 
every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a 
captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the 
days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation. 

A— 5 


L. C. PAGE & COMPANY’S 


m WEST POINT GRAY 

By Florence Kimball Russel. 

12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50 

“ Singularly enough one of the best books of the year 
for boys is written by a woman and deals with life at West 
Point. The presentment of life in the famous military 
academy whence so many heroes have graduated is realistic 
and enjoyable.” — New York Sun. 

FROM CHEVRONS TO SHOULDER STRAPS 

By Florence Kimball Russel. 

12mo, cloth, illustrated, decorative . . $1.50 

West Point again forms the background of a new volume 
in this popular series, and relates the experience of Jack 
Stirling during his junior and senior years. 

THE SANDMAN: HIS FARM STORIES 

By William J. Hopkins. With fifty illustrations by 
Ada Clendenin Williamson. 

Large 12mo, decorative cover . . . . $1.50 

“ An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of 
very small children. It should be one of the most popular 
of the year’s books for reading to small children.” — 
Buffalo Express. 

THE SANDMAN: MORE FARM STORIES 

By William J. Hopkins. 

Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 
Mr. Hopkins’s first essay at bedtime stories met with 
such approval that this second book of “ Sandman ” tales 
was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, 
and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. 

THE SANDMAN: HIS SHIP STORIES 

By William J. Hopkins, author of “ The Sandman: 
His Farm Stories,” etc. 

Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 
“ Children call for these stories over and over again.” — 
Chicago Evening Post. 

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